


Blood Of My Blood

by BananaKisses



Category: Lunar Chronicles - Marissa Meyer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-04-25 20:36:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 34,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4975657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BananaKisses/pseuds/BananaKisses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prequel to Fairest. Prince Marrok is indifferent to the marriage that his father has arranged for him and bland, boring Jannali. But he begins to notice something strange about his new wife, and before long, he is pulled into an intricate web of never-ending lies; for beneath her blank glamour, Jannali hides something far more sinister than anything the Lunar Court has to offer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pastime With Good Company

Prince Marrok shivered as a calm breeze tittered down his spine. It had been constant that day, a gentle stream of air spread through Artemisia by small fans embedded beneath the ground at several choice locations. The main street was moderately busy, young ladies and lords shuffling about from bars and parties to find their next thrill. James had invited Marrok out for an _incognito_ drink, a toast of sorts to the crown prince’s nineteenth birthday; even though it had celebrated with much pomp and circumstance nearly three weeks before, James preferred to hang around where they couldn’t be held back by their titles.

Thus, Marrok found himself walking back to the palace, sans escort, alone with the Earth looming overhead. James was already lost to booze and a young woman had kindly offered to let him stay at her place for the night. Marrok himself felt a slight buzz in his head, but aside from flushed cheeks hidden by his handsome dark glamour, he was one hundred percent sober.

Although, he wished he were drunk. By then, his parents must have noticed his disappearance; he would come home to a slap upside the head and a good lecture. He frowned, shoving his hands in his pockets. Tonight, as a pleasant break from court dress and coquetry, he wore a simple tunic and black pants—although his dark-skinned glamour prevented him from looking like a complete peasant. James had neglected to mention that they would be going to the _Clair de Lune_ , a high-end club built by nobles for nobles. Marrok had groaned in irritation; he could’ve at least warned him to dress up a little.

He shivered again. Marrok had always had a certain sensitivity to the cold. As he walked further, the streets narrowed and became obscure and untrustworthy. The prince knew that he was going the opposite way from the palace, but his detour was intentional—he wanted to avoid the noisy and lewd plaza and instead clear his head through the tranquility of the back roads.

With nothing more than a whisper, said tranquility was broken.

Marrok turned his head. The energy that poked him from behind protruded into his thoughts, taking centre-stage in his mind.  Footsteps quietly approached. He felt a hand brush on his shoulder, and he spun around, his heart hammering in his chest.

“What business do you have with me?” Marrok demanded, his eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of the intruder. After a few moments of silence, he smirked and crossed his arms over his chest. “I know you’re here. Aren’t you aware that you’ve just breached my personal space?”

Through the light, Marrok could pick out a woman—her face shrouded in darkness, it mirrored the prince’s grin. “Those are some pretty big words for such a scrawny thing,” she mused.

Marrok swallowed down his contempt with a chuckle. It was routine for him, pretending not be insulted; his father would often point out how lacking he was in the size department, as if it somehow reduced his worth as a man. In the back of his mind, through the anger and alcohol, he wondered if he had let his glamour down.

_So be it. What does it matter if this random woman sees you as a scrawny beanpole?_

His heart skipped a beat. The thought wasn’t his own, that he knew immediately. He shivered as the woman took a step closer to him. She was glamouring the thought for him, the bitch.

“Who are you?” He growled, quietly slipping his hand towards his back pocket, where a small hand gun waited to be fired. He wasn’t so stupid as to go out unescorted without at least one means of defence should his glamour ever fail. Marrok frowned. He had every ability to reduce this fool to a bumbling mess on the ground, but something told him to hold back—

His hand froze.

As she stepped closer, Marrok noticed that she wasn’t a woman, but a girl of around sixteen, nearly a head shorter than him. He grit his teeth, warding off her own control. The gun fit perfectly into his hand as he loaded the magazine. “I _will_ shoot,” he hissed.

 _Ugly J_ , the voice in his head whispered. _I’m Ugly J._

She forced his fingers loose and the gun fell to the ground. Marrok, stunned, glanced up at her with glazed eyes. What kind of sick joke was this?

“Now that I’ve introduced myself,” said the girl, pulling a cruel-looking knife from the pouch on her hips, “Who might _you_ be? I’ve never seen you around here before. I do love meeting new people.” She tilted her head. “New fish.”

Marrok swallowed the lump of bile in his throat. His fingers itched to pick up the discarded gun and lodge a round of bullets in her brain. He didn’t want to die. _He couldn’t die._

For is this woman truly was Ugly J, he knew that he wouldn’t be leaving that back street in one piece. He shivered, staring down at his shoes, anything to avoid looking at Ugly J, Luna’s most notorious serial killer. It was said that at least forty deaths had been traced directly back to her, every corpse branded with a crude ‘J’ around the ankles. She has been evading capture for the whole five years of her recorded career, and even the most powerful nobles found themselves double-checking their locked doors at night. From the palace, after every discovery of her new victim, Marrok would stare out the window of his father’s study and wonder if she planned to kill him in his sleep. She had a preference for young men, as the reports quickly began to show, and Marrok could imagine that the crown prince would be a nice trophy. But now, in his plain clothes, unescorted, there was no way that she could tell who he was. No, he must’ve just been a leisurely find to her, a little distraction in search of more impressive targets.

He felt her bend his bioelectricity once again. He was forced to take a good look at her as she stepped in the earthlight. Ugly J was unlike her namesake—her chestnut hair swayed in the breeze, and Marrok could feel himself getting lost in her eyes, the darkest pitch. What little he could see of her sun-kissed skin stirred something within him, and he couldn’t decide whether the feeling was his own or if Ugly J planned to have a bit fun with him before slitting his throat.

She smiled. “You’ve not answered my question, New Fish.”

Marrok felt a scream tear its way from his throat, but it was quickly stamped down as Ugly J slammed her lips against his in a bruising kiss. The prince stumbled back, landing on the ground as she straddled him. In doing so, she effectively prevented his escape, and with a hiss, she bit his lip and ran her hands through his flaming orange hair, bright compared to the jet-black of his glamour. “ _What is your name_?” she growled in his ear.

“Marrok,” he managed to gasp, pushing her face away. “My name is Marrok Blackburn!”  


Ugly J’s eyes widened, in what seemed like genuine surprise. Which was quickly replaced with a mocking sneer. She stood, and with exceptional grace, she lowered into a curtsey, one hand in the air as if she were bunching the fabric of her imaginary gown. “Your Highness,” she cooed, and her voice made heat pool in his belly, despite how outright condescending she was. “It is an honour to meet you, truly.”

Marrok somehow managed to stand on his shaking legs, fear urging him to run, but rooted on the spot by her glamour. The prince was gifted in the art of manipulation, of course, being the offspring of the king, but his ability to defend his own mind had always been disappointingly weak. Hence why this woman kept him trapped—he would die here, and his parents would have to produce a new heir.

“You shouldn’t be leaving the palace alone, my prince.” Ugly J slipped the knife back in its holster. “There might be murderers about.”

Marrok finally let out a bellowing cry as she let go of his mind, and not a second later, he felt a damp cloth being held over his nose and mouth. He shut up instantly, and the world began to flip and spin in a dizzying display. He came to lie on the cool cobblestone, a dopey grin on his face, as the killer slipped back into the shadows.

It was not the last time that he would encounter Ugly J.

 

 

 

 

  


 


	2. Fancies To Digest

“Of all the irresponsible and foolish behaviour you’ve displayed over the years, this has to be your crowning achievement!” Queen Aisha barked furiously, tugging at Marrok’s hair with a comb. She had a habit of doing that when she felt angry towards him, in an attempt to tame his red mop that he had inherited from her.

As expected, Marrok was in for a world of pain upon his return. It probably didn’t help that he had been carried back unconscious in the arms of a guard. His mother, usually serene, had become a screaming banshee in her rage. His father, for his part, looked like he disapproved, but he had a mischievous glint in his eye that told Marrok that he had done something similar when he was his age.

“I thought we’ve warned you time and time again not to consort with Lord Abrasax,” said the king.

Marrok stared down at his hands, and he felt his cheeks flush. It was always odd, when anyone addressed James by his formal title. “He’s my friend. And this is the first time in a while that he offered to leave the palace. He was doing quite well, I like to think,” he admitted.

Aisha slammed the comb down on a side table, much to Marrok’s relief. The worst was over. “He’s a delinquent! And, not to mention, the lowest of his house. You’re to be twenty years old next April, Marrok, and we won’t be here forever; it’s about time that you’ve begun to build relations with the leaders of the High Houses.”

“And to prove this point,” his father added, “I have some good news for you.”

Marrok leaned back in his chair, apprehensive. “Oh?”

“Lady Cynthia Delacourt has accepted a marriage proposal between you and her eldest daughter. The wedding has been scheduled in three months’ time, and then you’ll hopefully have a fine princess to keep you in line.”

The prince smirked down at his lap. Of course, the king’s insistence on a bride for his only son had been the main topic of conversation at court for a while now. Every house had put their best girls forward in the hopes of tying into the royal bloodline, but in the end, King Tybalt had set his eye on Jannali Delacourt, heir to the wealthiest house on Luna. Marrok suspected that he had chosen her because the royal family was facing financial troubles from his parents’ excess spending, but he knew that neither of them would admit it either way. Such a rumour spread across Luna would put a great dent in the royal family’s armour.

He had never met Lady Delacourt, but from what he had been told, she was quite the bore. She rarely attended galas or parties and was always silent at court functions. Come to think of it, Marrok had never even seen her, she was so unremarkable.

Marrok looked up to the king, forcing a smile. “Father, this is indeed great news. Another thing I won’t have to worry about.”

Aisha’s anger vanished like a feather in the breeze, and she sighed. “Oh, my little boy is getting married! Dearest, I request that you appoint me head wedding planner, if you don’t mind. I would like to ensure that everything is perfect.”

“That would be splendid, Mother. Thank you,” said Marrok. Aisha nodded graciously. It was the one thing Marrok respected about his mother—her passion for parties had formed a sort of bond between them.

The king called for his attendant to jot down the order before he forgot it himself. Aisha began to chat excitedly about the upcoming nuptials, and Marrok shrunk further in his seat, not even bothering to hide his indifference.

* * *

 

Ugly J loved bones.

 It was the weirdest of things, having begun when she was just a child, keeping scraps from chicken at that night's dinner and killing small animals, their skeletons becoming shining additions to her collection. She loved running her razor-sharp nails along the white of the bones, hearing the lively scratch that came with it. They were like wood, but they also came from blood and flesh.

 Before long, animals and leftover chicken turned to humans. She had committed her first murder when she was just eleven, and had been collecting human bones ever since. Every victim she claimed, she took a piece of their spine that was then added to a chain. Over the years it became a necklace that was always kept draped around her neck, accentuating the graceful slope of her collarbone. She never took it off, and wore it under constant glamour. All her victims, as soon as they knew she was approaching, would tense with fear when they heard the tapping of her heels and the clanking of her human bangle.

 It was a year after she claimed her first victim and started her necklace that she set her sights on a larger target. Evening had settled around the Delacourt estate, and she stood outside in the dark. She knew that Lord Delacourt had a routine like clockwork, and that he would be alone in the sitting room at that precise time. It was the perfect set up, for the perfect murder, and soon she would be able to adorn her necklace further. At the thought, her fingers came up to her necklace and she scratched away at the remaining crusts of blood on the newest charm.

  _Perhaps I should become a jeweller,_ she mused.

 As silent as a mouse, she sneaked around the back walls, the route perfectly mapped out in her head. There may not have been security cameras, but there were most likely microphones hidden in the walls, listening to every noise. She silently snuck in through the cellar door, the scent of wine making her head spin and her throat beg for the red liquid. She barely kept herself away from popping a bottle open and downing it in one gulp. The house wasn't nearly as complicated as it looked on the inside, and she found herself at the door of the sitting room without much difficulty, quiet and unnoticed.

 The door creaked as she pried it open, and Lord Samson Delacourt stared at her with wide eyes as she stepped into the room. He surely didn’t recognize her through the glamour. She grinned and shut the door.

 “Who are you?”

 She let out a laugh, and her giggles grew even more callous as Samson's face grew more and more afraid. "What are you doing here?" he mumbled, nearly trembling. "What do you want from me?"

The man's voice was cut off with a gurgle as she stood and plunged a cruel-looking dagger into his back, blood spurting from the wound and tainting the glass floor red. She let out a howl of laughter at the sight of Samson’s crumpling body, at the satisfying squelch as he fell to the ground with a _flop_. His heart was stopped, his breath gone, his life drained away. She tucked her hands in her sleeves, coming out with a razor-sharp scalpel, posed to cut. _Slash, slash_. The lord's shirt was nothing but scraps of silk on the floor as she held him by his muscular chest, digging out the dagger and slipping in the smaller weapon, moving the skin and flesh away until she found the white of his spine. She ignored the bursts of sticky crimson as she pried out a piece of bone, round and glistening with blood.

 Her eyes gleamed. _Can't leave without the prize._

* * *

 

To his surprise, the king and queen had arranged for Marrok to spend time getting to know his fiancée before the wedding. And in a sense, Marrok was glad; none of the rumours had prepared him for how _boring_ Jannali truly was. That morning, he had waltzed into the throne room with the intent of spending the day with James, only to be met with Cynthia Delacourt’s beaming smile. She stood opposite of his parents, draped on their thrones. The girl—Jannali, he assumed—stood abreast to her mother with her nose in a book.

Marrok gulped and immediately composed himself. Cynthia’s smile widened and she curtsied. There was an awkward pause as Jannali remained standing, not ungluing her eyes from the volume in her hands. Cynthia cleared her throat.

Jannali looked up and turned her page. Her eyes shooting daggers, Cynthia discreetly elbowed her daughter’s ribs.

“My apologies, Your Highness,” said Jannali, slamming her book shut. She held it demurely in front of her as she dipped into a curtsey of her own. A shiver ran down Marrok’s spine—the action carried a condescending air, and it couldn’t help but feel familiar. He quickly waved the feeling away and bowed in turn.

“I am delighted to meet you, My Lady,” he said, forcing the barest amount of life in his voice.

Jannali held out a hand, a gentle flush to her pale cheeks. It was as if someone had dipped her in a vat of white paint; her hair, nearly a silver shade, was delicately braided down to her hips and her dress was the purest silk, inlaid with crystals. Her striking violet eyes were topped with smouldering lashes. Marrok gently kissed her hand, not once breaking eye contact.

“Likewise, My Prince.” She pulled her hand away, and only then did Marrok realize that he had still been holding onto it.

Pleased that the two had been acquainted, Tybalt and Aisha led Lady Delacourt on a tour of the private gardens, with Marrok and Jannali following a good distance behind. She said nothing, staring ahead with her book clutched to her chest. Marrok glanced at her periodically, unwilling to be the one to start conversation. It pained him that he would have to spend the rest of his life with this girl—she might as well have been a mute!

“You two are awfully quiet,” the queen chirped, her arm hooked through her husband’s. “What were you reading, My Lady?”

Jannali looked down at her feet, then back up at the queen. It might’ve just been Marrok’s imagination, but she nearly seemed irritated at her disruption. It was odd, given how amiable Aisha was—she had a habit of charming anyone she met. Jannali’s cold stare irritated the prince; he didn’t appreciate such treatment of his mother.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty.” She dipped her head. “You must be mistaken, for this is a notebook—I hate reading.”

“Oh? What for?”

“And how come you were _reading_ it earlier?” Marrok cut in, quite rudely.

Jannali smiled for the first time that day. She opened up the note to a middle page and held it up for them to see. Marrok’s eyes widened as he took in the complicated formulas scrawled across the paper. It was enough to make his head hurt. “I like to think that I have a talent of sorts in the sciences. My tutor is expecting me to do well on my next exam, and I wouldn’t want to disappoint him.”

“Her father, may he rest in peace, would be very proud of her,” Cynthia added, coming to walk next to the queen. “Lord Delacourt had enjoyed studying chemistry as a young man.”

Jannali sent a glare in her mother’s direction. Cynthia remained oblivious, talking more to Aisha now about her husband’s many accomplishments. Marrok watched with slight amusement as Jannali closed her book and resumed her blank stare, obviously irritated. He didn’t quite understand her reaction; Lord Delacourt had been assassinated over three years ago. Surely it shouldn’t bother her anymore.

“She seems to get on your nerves,” Marrok joked, in a vain attempt to break the tension.  


Jannali shrugged, never once looking at him.

“What do you plan do to in the sciences?”

She glanced at him. “I don’t plan to do anything. It’s just a hobby.” She held her head high and narrowed her eyes. “My future has taken a sudden abrupt turn.”

The prince nearly rolled his eyes, but he managed to smile and held his hands behind his back. _Mine too, dearie. Mine too._

 


	3. Is Virtue, Vices To Flee

"We should go out," said James for the umpteenth time, waving his quill around like a magic wand.

"Put that thing down; you'll stain the upholstery." Marrok crossed his legs. The light in his chambers had been turned low, by his request. After a whole day of suit fittings and final wedding preparations, Marrok had no desire to go and sit by while James got smashed with a lady of a lower house that just so happened to be at the same bar. Besides, it was never wise to go and get drunk on the eve of a royal wedding.

It was all the servants had talked about as they milled about the palace. The queen was particularly excited for this event, if her devotion and careful planning was any indication. She had even been present at Marrok's final fitting, dressed in her own attire for the reception that would follow the wedding itself. The style, of course, was all her own; her red hair had been teased up in an elaborate updo reminiscent of the French royalty back in ancient times. With the roses, she reminded Marrok of the queen who had been guillotined during the revolution. Aisha had a particular fondness for the exuberant lifestyle of Marie-Antoinette.

"I do not wish to leave the palace tonight," said Marrok.

"Why not? If I were you, I'd take the time to relish in my last night of single life."

"You're acting as if this changes anything. Just because I'm married doesn't mean that my loyalty lies with my wife." The prince shrugged. "And with a bride like Jannali, I'll have a mistress within the next week, just you watch."

Marrok didn't really mean this. He had much more pressing matters on his mind than who was going to warm his bed at night, with his father discussing the idea of having Marrok rule in the king's council in preparation for when he himself would become Luna's sovereign. A mistress would have wait at least a month or so.

"So. You coming or not?"

Marrok smiled. "Go home, James."

* * *

 

Cynthia had roused Jannali at the crack of dawn, and she was run through the most vigorous bath that she had endured in a while. Her skin was tingly and red all over as the maids pulled at her hair and twisted it into tight curls. Jannali tried to complain; what was the point of going through this nonsense when she could very easily glamour her hair into a silver masterpiece? She was quickly silenced as her corset was tightened around her, and she instead managed a wheeze. Her anger was apparent to all who attended to her, especially Lady Hortense, her new mistress of the household. Jannali had disliked her immediately, and came to call her 'Madame Etiquette'.

"My Lady, you mustn't slouch. We can't fit you properly into your gown the way you stand," said Madame Etiquette.

Jannali pursed her lips. She was being difficult on purpose! From the beginning, she had made no secret of her distaste for her wedding gown, a hideous poufy thing that blended with the white skin of her glamour. From the neckline to her waist there was an ocean of lace, and ribbons had been stitched on every available surface. She felt like a cake topper, and rather wished that she could attend the ceremony naked.

She was told to smile.  _This is your wedding day. Shouldn't you be elated, Milady?_

But smiling was the last thing Jannali wanted to do. The night before had been devoted to a good prospect.  _A bachelorette party of sorts,_ she had mused. Because of this, she had not returned home until the small hours of the night, and she was certain that there was evidence of her sleep deprivation beneath her glamour.  _Crabby_  was the word one would use to describe her—every movement was rough and screamed of annoyance. She had no appreciation for weddings, and her own was no exception. No, but she looked forward to after, when she and the prince were wed.

The ride to the palace was endured in silence. Cynthia remained silent for once, much to her daughter's relief. Jannali observed the crowds lined up along the streets with a hawk's eye. They pelted the hover with flowers and regolith dust, as was custom for the bride's procession. The bride herself buried her head in her hands. It was beyond embarrassing.  _Don't these people have anything better to do_?

When the hover came to a stop outside the palace's main entrance, Jannali was escorted down the halls to the chapel, in the parlour where she'd finish primping up for the ceremony. Two guards flanked her sides, and annoyance raged in her, although she knew that this was only the beginning. As soon as she walked out of the wedding hall on the prince's arm, she would be escorted by an army of palace staff everywhere she went until the day she died. Well, not if she could help it, of course. They wouldn't be coming prospecting, that much was for certain.

"Please, right this way," said the guard, opening the door for her. Jannali brushed past him. "Should you need anything at all, simply call for your handmaidens. They are waiting right in the next room." The guard smiled. "You look beautiful, My Lady. And, know for certain, I do look forward to calling you my princess."

"Thank you," Jannali whispered. And when the guard left her side, she snorted. It wasn't anything new—since the declaration of her engagement anyone and everyone had been brown-nosing the young queen-to-be. But that guard in particular seemed to hint at something more than simple ass-kissing; Jannali made a mental note of him.

The room that she entered was very cold. Each tile on the floor was different, displaying one rich colour after another. Wide pillars supported the ceiling, quartz giving way to marble, marble giving way to onyx, regolith and granite. She caught sight of her reflection in the large mirror on the wall. She cocked her head, immediately intrigued by its strange design. It stood ominous, taller than even Serenity, her gargantuan lady-in-waiting. It was framed in silver that was tarnished with age. The metal had been crafted into elaborate scrolls with a prominent crown centered at the top. On the sides, silver flowers and thorny branches entwined around the frame, looking as though they were growing out from behind the mirror, like they would someday engulf it entirely.

As she noted with revulsion how hideous her wedding gown was, Jannali found that she grew fond of the mirror. Once she was the princess she would ask the king for it as a wedding gift.

She could hear the echo of an organ. The orchestra and chorus must've been doing a sound check. In a small act of rebellion, she tore off the layer of bows that lined the edge of her gown, already feeling a little less ridiculous. If her entourage noticed, they didn't comment during the walk down into the antechamber. Once there, she was fussed over a little more by Madame Etiquette and a sumptuous bouquet of white lilies was put in her hand.

The music grew louder in the hall, indicating their cue. Jannali had been given the option to have a bridal party—she politely declined, in part because she didn't want to bother with any details of the ceremony, but mostly because she didn't really have any friends to be  _part_  of her bridal party. On top of being a bore, she also had the reputation of being a cold recluse.

The grand doors opened, and the bright light nearly disarmed the bride. If it weren't for her steady posture, she would've fallen to the ground in a blinded mess. Jannali forced herself not to shoo away the young boys that held her train for her as she made her way down the chapel. The march was slow and the aisle was long, nearly endless, and then, at last, at  _last_ , she was met with Marrok's open hand. In a symbol as old as the world, Jannali placed her own hand within the prince's. His indifference was exhilarating;  _undoing him is going to be so much fun_ , she tittered to herself.

She willed herself to be cold and unfeeling as they both turned to the officiant. The man's words were a blur in Jannali's ears as her stomach did somersaults. Marrok was a statue, as cold and as smooth as marble. Jannali remembered him as he truly was; tall with a mess of red curls, warm brown eyes, freckles covering every scrap of skin she could see. His glamour was that of a golden-haired Adonis, to which she felt no attraction. But the scrawny prince that she had encountered on the street with fear in his eyes made her burn with lust and anticipation.

The officiant spoke of the importance of their union, of the magnitude of the occasion, of the joining of two hearts. The customary golden ribbon was wrapped around both their forearms. Their vows were traditional words that had been spoken a million times before. "I, Marrok Blackburn," the prince slipped a wedding band on her finger, and she shivered with pleasure. "Take you, Jannali Delacourt, to be my wife and queen. You will be my stars at night and my sun at dawn, and I promise to love and cherish you for the rest of our days."

Barely able to control her shaking hand, Jannali took the second band from the ring-bearer and put it on Marrok's own finger. "I, Jannali Delacourt, take you, Marrok Blackburn, to be my husband and king. You will be my stars at night and my sun at dawn, and I promise to love and cherish..." She smiled slightly, her fantasies becoming even more violent. "I promise to love and cherish you for the rest of our days."

A hush fell upon the nobles in the pews as the officiant declared them man and wife. There was a grand pause that felt like it belonged in a Mozart concerto, tense with anticipation. In Marrok's eyes, indecisiveness and protocol battled for dominance. In the end, it was clear who won out; he gently tipped Jannali's head back and pressed his lips to hers.

Jannali took him by surprise as she threw her arms over his shoulder, deepening the kiss with ferocity. Had they seen this, everyone would have acted shocked at her display of affection, but there was no reaction of any kind from the congregation. Jannali made sure of it.

Then, she bit his lip.

With a yelp, Marrok wrenched her away. Jannali turned and smiled; as the room rang with applause and cheer, she thought of how pretty he would look with a 'J' carved into his ankle.

That would never come to be.

 

 


	4. Youth Must Have Some Dalliance

Marrok had slept alone. In all honesty, he was glad that he was able to have any time for himself after the boisterous wedding reception. Every member of court had been in attendance! And although Marrok was ready to retire for bed as early as ten o'clock, he was urged to stay until every last courtier either left or was carried out in a drunken stupor. James, oddly enough, had managed to remain half-sober throughout the event, and so Marrok spent the majority of the evening with him instead of his bride.

Jannali herself was the star of the show. If anyone had found her introverted tendencies odd before, they were confused beyond reason as she danced the night away, flirting with every man that made conversation. It was the most Marrok had seen of her since they first met, and he just wound up feeling uncomfortable and confused. Her kiss at the ceremony had been a brutal wake-up call. At the time, Marrok couldn't seem to explain the fear that curdled his blood, but he was all-too willing to avoid the new Princess Jannali.

After everyone had left, the party was dismissed and Marrok slumped down on his bed, exhausted. His maids offered to help him undress, but he waved them away and shrugged off his coat with a face. He had been sweltering beneath the suffocating velvet. He took off his shoes, and, too tired to do much else, he crawled beneath the blankets and fell asleep in his chemise and dress pants.

He had expected to be woken up within the hour and joined by his new wife so that they may consummate their marriage, as was custom. But Jannali had not shown up, which suited Marrok just fine. He was in no mood to partake in such activities, and certainly not with  _her_. Despite her festive cheer at the reception, she had excused herself from the party two hours before anyone else even began to become tipsy. Marrok wondered with a sneer if she was as boring in bed as she was in public.

He was given utmost liberty the next day, and he slept in well past two in the afternoon. The little time left that he had was devoted to studying over his father's memoirs, a book of lessons and rules that Marrok had gotten into the habit of studying once a month—as just a few extra precautions for when he would come to wear the crown.

Through his fatigue and headache, the endless scrawl of political and economic science made the prince want to bash his head against the wall. The desire only intensified when he was reminded that he was expected for dinner with his parents and Jannali.

* * *

 

He was back in a velvet coat at an ornate dining table, surrounded by roasted goose and sweet corn. He was normally quite fond of these dishes, but tonight, he had no appetite. Jannali sat across from him. Ever since their first meeting, she had obviously refined her glamour into something more typical of a princess—sharper features, longer hair, her eyes a deep royal purple, stunning and artificial. Her silver locks had been teased into large curls that resembled blooming roses. Although out of place on plain, boring Jannali, the hairstyle was much more subdued than the queen's braid, thick like a tree trunk and as long as her legs. An array of flowers replaced her silver crown.

"Tell me, Twinkles," said Aisha, glancing at her son. Marrok resisted the urge to groan. Even in private, he hated when she addressed him by her little pet name. It was cute when he was six, but he's a grown man now! She liked to say it was because his eyes twinkled when something caught his interest. "Was the party to your liking? I made sure that all the pieces played were compositions by Charolais. I know you prefer her over Lalji."

Marrok nodded. "I noticed. Thank you, Mother—and all my favorites, too."

Aisha beamed. "Yes, although I did include your father's little minuet…"

"Absolutely splendid," the king cut in, finishing off a chunk of meat. "You've outdone yourself, Dearest."

"And you, my dear daughter-in-law?" The queen turned to Jannali, who had regained her air of solitude and indifference. She had not looked up from her plate for the entire evening. Even now, she simply nodded as the queen asked her question after question, if she enjoyed the festivities and if not, what could be done for next time. Marrok sat back, irritated. His mother was much too kind.

After dinner was the _salon_ , where the royals were joined by the king and queen’s closest friends. Among these nobles was the lovely Genevieve, the matriarch of House Moonborne. She was famous not only as a shrewd businesswoman, but also as the queen’s beloved mistress. Marrok had always liked Genevieve—she had helped him take on the piano as a young boy. But the same could not be said for her two sons, one a fancy strumpet and the other an ogre in every sense of the word. Marrok had been wary of them since the beginning. In response, they had snuck into his rooms and cut up half of his pants.

James, of course, was not invited to attend the _salon_. Marrok had no interest in gambling or playing cards with the older courtiers, and he would’ve rather burned off half of his own face before conversing with either Moonborne boys, so he was left with Jannali for company. She was draped on a settee by the holographic fireplace, scribbling away in that little notebook of hers. Marrok had the sudden urge to tear it from her and rip it to shreds.

Instead, he settled himself next to her and cleared his throat. She looked up, her deep violet eyes making his vision shift. Dear Stars, those things were bright.

“What can I do for you, Your Highness?” Jannali inquired, her voice soft and meek.

Marrok folded his hands in his lap. Normally, he wouldn’t have given her the time of day, but boredom overweighed any disdain he had for her. “I was wondering if you would be interested in a little stroll by the lake. It is getting to be quite stuffy in here.”

Jannali tilted her head, and Marrok got a sudden whiff of her perfume. Which was surprising, given that his nose had been rendered useless by the ocean of cologne and others scents that the nobles sported. It was a pleasant, subtle mix—coconut and something else that he couldn’t place.

Jannali smiled, displaying her pearly white teeth. Marrok suddenly shivered; she reminded him of those beasts in the menagerie that would bare their teeth before attacking their prey. “I would be delighted, My Prince.”

* * *

 

It was essential that she take her time.

 

And Ugly J had an abundance of patience. It was all part of the fun—luring in your prey for the ultimate pleasure and satisfaction when you finally got to pounce. She could’ve killed Marrok on that first night; Ugly J had not killed in a month and she was thirsty for blood. But she was already aware of their engagement, and so she was forced to let him go—this had only happened once before, and the escaped victim had ran straight to the police. It was how they knew her name, but luckily, she had not shown the stupid man her face. All it took to lure him away was a slight flash of her cleavage.

 

She would never truly forgive herself for that. Even though now, the fun has only increased, now that the police knew who she was—she was famous. But Ugly J would not commit another mistake. Even prospecting wasn’t worth breaking up a marriage arranged by the king; she would have to wait until she gave Marrok an heir to kill him. She could play the crazed widow, now a single mother, and act as regent until the child assumed the throne. Ugly J would then re-emerge from the shadows and begin her reign over the streets.

 

She was skilled at seduction. It wasn’t hard, really—just model yourself into what he wants and then collect your dues. For Ugly J, said dues were a new charm to her necklace and another worthless debauchee erased from the world. But she couldn’t erase Marrok so soon after their wedding, without a pregnancy. She had remained undiscovered and was fully content with staying that way. So this time, she decided that she would string Marrok along before bedding him. After all, what was a prospect without the thrill of the hunt?

* * *

 There were butterflies milling about the flowers, which Marrok found pleasant. When he was younger, he would capture some in a jar and pin them to a wooden board that still hung on his wall to this day. As much as he hated to admit it, it had given him a sick sort of pleasure, driving needles through their bodies and watching them die at his hand. He supposed it gave him the sort of power that a child could only dream of.

He was glad to be out of that phase.

Jannali, for her part, was quite in character—saying nothing, staring at the Artemisia Lake’s glimmering waters, seemingly lost in thought. Marrok held his behind his back. “You don’t talk much,” he broke the silence.

Jannali smiled. “I speak when I have something meaningful to say.”

If it was meant to be a jab against him, Marrok ignored it. “If we’re going to make this work, we should get to know each other,” he announced. He knew that there was nothing about Jannali that he would care about, but he figured that it would be best to melt the ice wall between them as soon as possible. They were, after all, together now. _For life._ He couldn’t help but shudder.

The princess quirked a perfectly manicured brow. “What would you like to know?”

“What’s your favorite colour? Mine’s red.”

“I would assume so, given that wonderful mane of yours.”

Marrok stopped walking. He grasped at his hair and saw that his glamour was still in place; he had kept the appearance of the blond boy that he wore at his wedding. His hair was perfectly groomed and settled at his neck like spun gold. “I do beg your pardon?”

Jannali had the sense to act surprised. She put a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide. “Oh, my apologies! When I saw you return to your rooms last night, I’d assumed that you let up your glamour by then. I must admit, I rather like your hair. It’s like fire.”

 Marrok’s cheeks burned. He didn’t remember taking down his glamour at all, even once he flopped himself in bed. But it didn’t matter; she had seen, and it angered him. “What is your favourite colour?” Marrok repeated.

“Purple. I simply _adore_ purple,” said Jannali. “If you couldn’t tell by my eyes.”

Although it was a _severe_ breach of court etiquette, Marrok then asked: “And your real eyes? What colour are they?” 

Jannali smiled. “They’re quite dark. I’m not sure what they call such a shade—onyx?” She shrugged. “Anything else?”

“What are your hobbies? Aside from studying, of course.” 

“I don’t have time for hobbies.”

“Anything you don’t do with your tutors. Surely you don’t spend your life with them?”

Jannali ran a finger on the pearl necklace draped across her collarbone. “I used to make jewelry when I was little. My mother would give me all her spare gems and broken pieces, and from them I’d make little baubles. The ladies in my mother’s inner circle thought they were absolutely precious and would buy them off me.”

 Marrok faintly remembered that—his mother would rave on about the adorable bracelets her friends would wear out in town on casual outings. Aisha had given him one that was too small for her, made of silver and rubies. He had been enamoured with the thing. It had a little “J” scrawled beside one of the jewels, and Aisha had told him that it was the maker’s signature. It didn’t fit him anymore, but he still kept it hidden away with his most treasured possessions.

 Now, knowing that Jannali had made it, he would throw it away as soon as he was dismissed for night.

 


	5. Company With Honesty

Although it had been at least two months since the wedding, Marrok and Jannali still hadn't consummated their marriage. People began to talk, as they usually did, hushed words behind embroidered fans and gloved hands. Some wondered if it was because the prince found his bride repulsive—those who held a distaste for the royal family, despite the threat of treason, would say that the prince was impotent.

Jannali insisted on sleeping in her own chambers. Whenever she was encouraged by her maids to visit her husband in the evening, she would purse her lips and narrow her perfectly-glamoured eyes, shutting them up instantly. She knew what she was doing. She was taking her time.

Marrok didn't make any efforts to forge a physical relationship, for which Jannali was grateful. It just made her task that much easier. Because the truth was, she wanted to sleep with him, very much. She wanted to spend the night in his arms, hot and breathless and moaning with delight. Little by little, she found the prince intruding in on even her most private moments, when she bathed, when she studied, when she forced down her prospect and slit his throat. He followed her through the halls and felt her under the table at dinner, sly and lustful. Marrok himself never did any of these things, but Jannali had created a complex fantasy in which he was her mate and would go to any lengths to please her.

It would have to happen eventually, of course. But not yet. Jannali wanted to reveal her entire self to him, and to do that she would have to reel him into her arms. For now, she was stuck spending the majority of her days with her mother-in-law, and Jannali was at the end of her rope. Aisha's chipper attitude about everything drove her up the wall.

"What do you think, Sweets?" Aisha tittered, holding her hands up in a square shape. "Would this tapestry go well in the throne room? Tybalt wants a replacement and I promised Genevieve's sister that I'd feature one of her pieces."

If she heard the name  _Sweets_  one more time, Jannali would throttle the woman. For her part, she thought the tapestry was nice, subdued enough for her taste. The black cloth depicted the Lunar insignia in shimmering, handwoven threads, a design that had originated back when Luna was a republic. It depicted Luna and the capital city of Artemisia in the foreground, with Earth in the distance.

"It will do," said Jannali, fingering her wedding band. She wasn't usually one for precious jewellery, but she found herself growing fond of it, despite the lavish excess of diamonds incrusted into the silver.

The queen smiled. "Yes, yes, that would be good indeed!" She turned to the guard that kept watch behind them. "Fetch Marilee and tell her that she can take down the old rag and hang this up in its place." She waved a dainty hand. "As soon as possible would be best."

As the guard walked away, Jannali cringed. Aisha had put a hand on her shoulder and prattled on about the next week's gala for the full earth. The princess hated galas. She hated the full earth. And above all, she hated the queen.

Jannali despised perky people.

* * *

 

Ugly J had struck again.

King Tybalt was furious now, even more so after the disappearance of one of his little bastards that he kept stashed away somewhere in Elathia. The king had never legitimized the children that he had with other women, but he supported them and kept their mothers quite wealthy. Marrok had never met any of his half-siblings, and nor did he care to. The queen, though, would visit them on occasion and return to the palace glowing with happiness, for she had a great affection for young children. Her only son was too old for coddling, but she still called him Twinkles. Unlike many other queens of the Blackburn dynasty, Aisha did not mind her husband's bastards, nor his mistresses—she had a few of her own, after all. Mistresses, that is.

Her sadness was great along with the king's fury when the body of seventeen-year-old Lucas was found dismembered with a 'J' carved into his ankle. At the news, Marrok couldn't help but feel a pang of melancholy. He couldn't make himself think of this dead stranger as a brother, but he mourned for him as one of his subjects. Even Jannali seemed contrite, when she noticed the king and queen's conditions.

But Marrok didn't have much time to feel bad—soon, he was elated; he had been allowed to see James again, and the day bode well. A good romp through AR-4 was in order—the sweet shops and bakeries weren't going to empty themselves. With a Danish pastry in his mouth and a handful of candies in each pocket, Marrok was horrified to find that Jannali was waiting for him with their entourage near the entrance of the shopping district.

"I thought it was understood that you were to spend the day with me," said Jannali, crossing her arms over her chest.

"That was never my intention."

James peeked over Marrok's shoulder, still suckling on a sour apple petite. "Man, I think you're in a wee bit of trouble."

Jannali narrowed her eyes and stared at James with a look that nearly indicated disgust, but was toned down enough to refrain from it being so. Marrok cleared his throat and brushed James away. "Lord Abrasax, you must calm down. You're in Her Highness' presence," he narrowed his own eyes, "and in mine."

James puffed his cheeks and dropped into a bow. "Princess."

Jannali reluctantly curtsied and held out her hand. Marrok hooked his arm through hers and lead their entourage back to the palace. From there, the monotonous pace of court life continued with renewed dullness. James began to refuse spending time with Marrok in Jannali's company.  _She freaks me out,_  he would say.  _The way she looks at you scares me._

Marrok tried to catch a glimpse of this stare that James spoke of, but whenever he glanced at Jannali he was met with bored indifference, and the courtiers around him reported the same thing. The venom with which they said it made irritation gnaw at Marrok's spine.  _We've heard that you haven't yet made any efforts to give us an heir. Do you not have it in you? Or is it your little bride that finds you insufficient?_

He hated them. From birth, he had been raised to beware the hounding courtiers. Every word they said, no matter how worthless or insulting, needed to be taken seriously, for they were the thoughts of the powerful. And no one knew better than Marrok that you should never alienate the powerful. But he refused to be the one to reach out to his  _little bride_  and coax her to spread her legs for him. If she truly cared, she would have to do the work herself.

As much as he would avoid her, Jannali wasn't a non-entity in Marrok's life, much to his dismay. He wasn't sure how he got roped into an afternoon with his wife and mother, but Marrok found himself tinkering away at the piano with Jannali reading off her music on a nearby stand. He had to admit that she had a splendid singing voice, obviously authentic as they recorded each rehearsal. Aisha sat by on the harp, and if the need arose, a little hand drum that was a necessity to most Lunar folk music. The prince found it hard to focus on the notes on the page with Jannali so close by, and he made more than a few mistakes.

"What's going on today, Twinkles? Your playing is usually flawless."

Marrok shrugged. "I didn't get much sleep last night." A lie. He had slept like a log by nine o'clock. Aisha raised an eyebrow, and Marrok couldn't help but roll his eyes. "I was rereading over father's memoirs until midnight."

"And you, Jannali? Did you sleep well?"

Jannali dipped her lashes coquettishly, and there it was again. That scent. Marrok's head spun and he felt heat pooling in his cheeks. Something welled in his gut, unwelcome and strange. Unlike before, the tantalizing aroma of Jannali's perfume refused to fade from Marrok's brain. He wanted to believe that it was a glamour, that Jannali or some other courtier was playing him around, but even when he was alone the feeling persisted.

* * *

 

Marrok came to learn that Jannali was quite forgetful.

Three times now, she had left her notebook in his chambers after evening tea. This time, instead of having a maid return it to her, he made his way to her own rooms with the intention of giving her a firm admonishment. If she left it lying around again, Marrok resolved that he would take to it with a pair of shears.

He paused in front of her door and knocked, rolling back on his heels with impatience. He didn't have anywhere to be, but it was an inconvenience that he shouldn't have to endure in the first place. There was no answer. Marrok glowered and knocked again.

When Jannali didn't open the door, he slipped in with his typical grace and stayed against the flowered walls. Jannali was nowhere to be found—the sheers were drawn over the windows, and the pretty sofas in the sitting-room held a slew of books. For how much she supposedly hated reading, Jannali had many tomes lying around. Quite expensive ones, Marrok might add. Genevieve would have loved to get her hands on them.

He passed by a large mirror on the far wall and did a double-take. It was the one from the chapel's antechamber. He personally hated the thing—Marrok preferred simplicity, and the complicated frame proved to be quite an eyesore. He could hear soft humming from around the corner, and he gripped the notebook like a vice.

Jannali sat on a ruffled tabouret, running a brush through her long brown hair. Marrok's eyes widened as he took her in, dressed in nothing but a thin silk robe that didn't leave much to the imagination. Her hands, swathed in warm tan skin, sported sharp nails that could be seen even from where Marrok hid behind the wall. She continued to hum a charming little ditty as she gazed at herself in the mirror. Marrok could see her angular face staring back at him through her reflection, and she grinned.

His heart crawled through his throat and threatened to fall out of his mouth. Jannali stood and glided over to him. "Why, Your Highness...I wasn't expecting a visit from you," she said with unmistakable huskiness to her voice.

It took Marrok a moment to swallow back his fear and desire. "I ask that you refrain from leaving your belongings everywhere in the palace." He held out the notebook, and Jannali took it without breaking eye contact.

Marrok nearly doubled over. Her eyes, through her long lashes, were a rich onyx colour, thick like tar. He charged away from her, his blood flowing like molasses. " _Stay away from me_."

"Your Highness?" Jannali listed her head, revealing her elegant neck, not unlike a swan's.

"I'll have you arrested." He gripped her bioelectricity and she froze, rooted to the spot. Jannali's crimson lips curled into a smirk. "Don't come any closer."

The princess retaliated with her own glamour and forced him to his knees. He stood immediately, his eyes flaming with hatred and fear. "Why don't you stay for a while, New Fish?" Ugly J tittered, draping herself on a white divan.


	6. Thus Live Will I

Looking back, Marrok would be very ashamed to admit that he had almost wet himself in his fear. He said nothing, his eyes darting back and forth in search of an escape.

"Come," Jannali insisted. "It was you who suggested getting to know each other. So I want to tell you more about me."

Despite his terror, Marrok found himself obeying and took a seat next to the killer. Jannali had perched herself seductively, the skirt of her robe hitched over her thigh, and Marrok did his best to avert his gaze. "I hate you," he declared.

Jannali arched an eyebrow. "Why? That seems quite backwards—I let you go, didn't I?" Her smile turned to a pout. "It seems to me that you should be rather fond of me. Heaven knows I'm fond of you."

Marrok held back a gag, not only at her words, but also at the wave of pleasure that coursed through him. He did not want her. _He would not want her._

Jannali placed a hand on his thigh. He hissed, and it shocked him how much he sounded like an animal. The prince scooted over; he wasn't satisfied until there was at least a metre gap between him and Ugly J.

In response, Jannali rubbed her arms, her chestnut curls bouncing around her shoulders in a hypnotizing display. "Your father seems upset with me."

"You killed his son."

"His bastard," she corrected. "The fool was trying to take me to bed, so I gave him what he deserved."

Marrok wanted to scream. To claw her eyes out and beat her until she bled, for causing his parents such pain. Yet, he didn't leave. He was intrigued.

He wanted to kill himself for it.

"Why do you do it?" Marrok asked, gripping the fabric of his coat. "You have nothing to gain."

"Oh yes, I do." Jannali fingered the necklace draped over her collar. Marrok hadn't noticed it before; it must've always been beneath her glamour. "You see, I hate men. Not because they've ever hurt me—I would never let myself be harmed by such primitive beasts. You know of which ones I speak: the ones who would leer and stare at me, from the time I was eleven on. And it doesn't frighten me or even disgust me." Jannali grinned. "It _amuses_ me, Marrok. The way all their civility and sociability and intelligence just sluice away like sand under a hose."

Marrok's heart hammered in his chest. Jannali inched closer and put a hand on his shoulder, her eyes gleaming as she rhapsodized. "My own father noticed my changing body. Stared. Became foolish and stupid until the day I finally killed him."

Distant memories of the queen's sadness when Lord Delacourt was killed rang through Marrok's head. _Cynthia...my dear friend,_ Aisha had sobbed. _All she has left is her darling daughter!_

That's what she did, Cynthia's darling daughter. She tore families apart.

Jannali didn't seem to notice Marrok's discomfort, and if she did, she didn't care in the least. "My cleavage makes them idiots. My legs turn them into morons. I realized early on that men do not matter. That they are pathetic, subhuman creatures." Jannali snorted. "And that makes women even worse. Because everywhere I look, women paint themselves, glamour themselves, dress themselves, put holes in their flesh to dangle jewelry, all to attract one of these pitiful, abjectly infantile male beasts that can barely control their own urges."

He glared at her with his eyes like steel, thinking of his mother, modest and in love with her wise and benevolent mistress. "That isn't true, and you know it."

Jannali waved a hand. "Oh, yes. Not all women, of course, but enough that it's unavoidable, and it tries to force itself upon me. Since birth I've been groomed to desire men, to please them. I was never one to obey," she tittered.

"All this because you feel oppressed?"

She laughed this time. "I don't care enough to be oppressed. It's a game, Marrok." It wasn't often that she addressed him by his name, and Marrok further resented how much he liked the way it rolled off her tongue. "I’m a hunter. And they're like..." Jannali looked up at the ceiling, as if she were searching for the proper description. "They're like stupid deer, bucks in heat. I've heard that's the ideal time to go out and shoot them, when you hunt on Earth."

Marrok had not the faintest concept of earthen hunts, so he leaned back and asked, "How often do you do this?"

"It depends on my mood and when I can slip out unnoticed. I pay my off one of my lady's maids to pose as me under the pretence of sneaking off with a lover. Then I'm free to go prospecting."

"Where do you... _prospect_?" Marrok raised an eyebrow.

"Mostly in the outer sectors—no one really tends to notice disappearances in the mines. If I'm the mood for an aftermath, I'll go to Dianan or Elathia."

"And Artemisia."

She nodded. "Sometimes I like to stay close to home." She flicked her hair away and put her second hand on Marrok's chest. This time, he didn't push her away; the fear and interest and pure _want_ made him accept her embrace and sink down with her. She rested her head in the crook of his neck and he put a hand on her back, overwhelmed with desire.

He hated her. He hated himself. "Do you plan on killing me?"

"No," she lied, her voice sweet as honey. "I am the princess of Luna, and it is my duty to ascend my husband's throne as queen and give birth to the next monarch. And to do that I need you alive."

“In all honesty, I do not look forward to it.” Marrok gulped, cursing himself. _Do you have a death wish_?

Jannali clucked her tongue. “You lie, My Prince. I can tell that you want me; I see it in your eyes.” Her gaze softened, and Marrok’s cheeks flushed. “I’ve been there a thousand times over. You’re a prospect in heat and I’ll take great pleasure in—”

 “Take me with you.”

 Jannali blinked. “Pardon?”

 Marrok ran a hand through his hair, forcing himself to look at her in the eye. “Next time you go _prospecting_. Take me along.” He took her hand and put on his best debonair smile, in an effort to slip into his prince charming persona. “I want to see how you do it.”

The princess’ eyes widened, and she pursed her lips. “I’ve never…I’ve never done it with a partner before. It’s just double the work.”

 Marrok stared deep into her with a fierce intensity. He didn’t know whether he was acting on instinct, buying himself time from Ugly J’s claws, or if he really—

 “You truly want to come with me? If you do…” She fiddled with her necklace, “You have to be with me until your death. As soon as you see me kill, you’re mine.”

He gulped. “Jannali…” This was also the first time he had ever said her name, and it was a lovely ballad dripping with threats and poison. He would begin to find that he loved her name. “I’ve been yours since I set foot in this room.”

 Jannali’s breath hitched, and for a moment, she wasn’t the image of menace. She was a lovesick teenager, eyes wide with anticipation as the man of her affections leaned down and kissed her gently. This time, she didn’t push him down and deepen the kiss. Instead she let Marrok run his hands down her back and he moaned, relishing in her taste, in her form. He forced down the self-loathing and indulged himself, just this once, in his bride.

* * *

Luckily, Marrok had woken before the servants came with breakfast, thus preventing them from seeing the blood smeared all over the snow-white sheets. Jannali was still asleep beside him, her shoulders gently rising and falling with each breath. He sat up with a wince, and he pulled off the fabric that had been glued to his back, biting back cries of pain. The sheets came back red and sticky, and his back stung like a swarm of bees.

He didn’t need to look in the mirror to know that this was the result of Jannali’s nails. As she cried out in pleasure the night before, her fingers were buried in Marrok’s back and he was too lost in ecstasy to really notice.

Not all the blood was his; as Marrok had slipped her out of her robe, Jannali sheepishly told him that she’d never lain with a man before. The prince kissed her and promised that he’d be gentle, but Jannali quickly urged him to go faster, harder, that she wanted to feel pain, that she wanted to _bleed_ —

He heard Jannali sigh and roll close to him. “Good morning...” She took his hand. “Are you alright?”

Marrok hissed. “I’m in pain.”

She sighed again. “Oh, me too—I’ll be sore for days. Thank you.”

Marrok pushed her away and stood with difficulty. He quickly slipped on his pants and took in his reflection. It was worse than he’d thought; the scratches had scabbed over, leaving crimson slashes across his flesh. Jannali had ravaged his neck as well, leaving it covered in purplish-black blotches. His eyes were wide and erratic, as was his hair—all combined, he looked as if he had just sobered up from a particularly bad acid trip.

He shrieked as he felt something warm and wet rub his back. “Hush,” said Jannali, gently kissing his shoulder. “I’m cleaning the wound. Just stand still and relax.”

Marrok couldn’t help but whimper in pain as Jannali wiped away all traces of dried blood and rubbed on a disinfectant salve. The cream numbed the pain, and Marrok let out a sigh of relief.

Jannali smiled. “Better?”

“Yes,” he said, lifting his arms as Jannali applied a dressing and wrapped him in a bandage. After, she helped him remove the sheets and discreetly shove them through the laundry chute. As they refit the bed with fresh linens, Marrok noted that the blood had not soaked through to the mattress.

“Hopefully this will give them something new to talk about.”

Marrok lifted his head and quirked an eyebrow. “You mean the courtiers?”

“Who else? Don’t tell me that you thought I had no idea what they say,” Jannali tittered. Marrok noticed that she had a habit of doing that. “They aren’t as discreet as they like to think.”

“No, they really aren’t. It’s a wonder that Father hasn’t had them executed for treason.”

“Your father isn’t that kind of man. He doesn’t have the courage or determination to put such powerful people to death, no matter how much they deserve it.” 

Marrok thought about for a moment, and came to the conclusion that she was right. His father was a weak man; weak for power, weak for women, weak for his son. He nearly jumped as Jannali turned towards him with a gleam in her eye.

 He should’ve known that she meant _prospect_.


	7. I Love And Shall Until I Die

"We go tonight."

Marrok looked up from his reports. Jannali sat on the edge of his desk, her arms crossed over her chest. Both excitement and dread battled in the pits of his stomach. "Right after tea," she continued, "we sneak out by the servant's quarters and go into the city. From there, we take the maglev to Sector 36."

It had been two weeks since Jannali promised to take Marrok out, and only then, when she was confident that he wouldn't run to his father, did she keep her word. Marrok knew that she was growing anxious—she hadn't gone prospecting since the last month, and she passed every night in her husband's bed. Their time together was spent in each other's arms, Jannali whispering about how much she loved to hunt. The prince wondered if he'd love it too.

"And what would be our alibi?" Marrok asked, loosening his collar.

"I'm, of course, sneaking off to visit my lover in Dianan. Serenity will glamour herself in my likeness. As for you..." Jannali stood and paced around, coming to rest a hand on his shoulder. "You will be off with your mistress."

Marrok's skin paled. "I don't have a mistress."

"As far as the court knows," Jannali whispered in his ear, "you've been spending the past two weeks with some kitchen wench after your wife proved to be displeasing. Of course, I hope that this is to remain a lie that I've crafted."

Marrok shivered. It was a threat, that much was clear. But he had no intention of sneaking off with some kitchen wench—not yet, anyway. "Of course."

Jannali smiled, and Marrok found himself ravished by her gaze. She had made a habit of letting down her horrid white glamour whenever they were alone, and her true appearance only grew more beautiful by the day. Cautiously, he rose up from his seat and put his lips to hers; Marrok didn't know how he would be received, so he was always wary to make the first move. But Jannali purred and pulled him against her, playing with his hair and tugging at his shirt.

A knock at the door was quick to interrupt them before they undressed themselves. With a sneer, Jannali pulled away from her husband. Marrok cleared his throat and smoothed down his hair. "Yes?"

Through the door came a maid, and Jannali made no effort to hide her displeasure as she slipped into the glamour of a pink-haired princess, wearing a gown made of nothing but flowers.

"His Majesty is awaiting your presence in the main conference room, My Prince. And he requests that you be quick about it," said the maid. She curtsied and, for the slightest moment, eyed Jannali with a look that said:  _And who might you be?_

Jannali's eyes shot daggers at the woman's back as she shuffled out of the room. After the door shut with a satisfying click, she turned to see her husband putting on a coat and slipping his netscreen under his arm. Disappointment and irritation brewing in her gut, she slid up to him and released her glamour.

"I'm sorry, Jannali," the prince said, and Jannali shivered in pleasure as he kissed her again. "Father has been talking about these reports all week, and I must see him to discuss my progress," he lowered his mouth to her ear, "but I'll see you at tea."

Jannali smiled as she watched him leave, trying not to let herself get caught up in her fury against the king.

 _Killjoy_.

* * *

 

Tea was an excruciatingly dull affair and more than once, Jannali found herself gripping her teacup to the point of shattering it. Both of Marrok's parents insisted on attending that evening, and Jannali wondered if they were doing it just to spite her. Marrok, for his part, seemed perfectly pleased in having the king and queen ruin what was supposed to be a planning session with their inane chatter.

After Their Majesties finally took their leave, Jannali dumped her tea back in the teapot—much to the maids' dismay—and left Marrok's chambers to prepare herself for the night's activities. Serenity was waiting for her as soon as she entered her rooms.

"Are you going out again tonight, Madam?"

Jannali flung open her closet and lifted up the bottom slat, revealing a secret compartment. "Yes. Only for a few hours, so you can just do what you like in here and act the part of anyone comes looking for me. I'll be back by one." Jannali hid her actions from her lady-in-waiting as she pulled out a black leather getup and her weapons hidden snugly in a messenger bag. Serenity's attention had been drawn to the painting that she had been working on since the week before, so Jannali didn't have to worry about her noticing as she slipped into the bathroom.

She peeled off her constricting gown and put on her prospecting garb—tight leggings, black shirt, leather jacket, leather boots. Something light and dark, for better movement and camouflage in the shadows. The outer sectors tended to be poorly lit, especially during the long night.

"You listened," Jannali commended, adjusting Marrok's jacket. They met up by the servants' quarters, as planned. Jannali had ordered that Marrok wear something similar to her own gear, and was pleased that he had managed to scrounge up something acceptable. He was decked in black from head to toe—while his hair stuck out like a sore thumb, he would just glamour it dark and he would be perfect.

"Let's go," Jannali ordered, taking the prince by the hand. He was clearly nervous, by the way he trembled and the pallor of his skin. They snuck out the back exit, swathed in the glamours of a couple kitchen hands. Outside the palace, the walls were dark and stooped. Marrok tried to stay as close to Jannali as possible—the last time he had been out here was when he and James decided to run off as children.

"You're shaking like a leaf," Jannali tittered. "Are you scared of blood, My Prince? It's not like you've never seen someone die before."

"I'm afraid of getting caught."

Jannali snorted. "Oh, hush. If you listen to what I say and do exactly what I do, we'll be able to walk into the palace with a corpse in hand and still not be caught."

Marrok stared ahead at the street, and he was reassured by the lights that came into view. They were by AR-2, the  _food district_ , where market after market bursted with produce of every colour and shape, bakeries with a constant stream of bread, and the best ice cream that the moon has to offer. The maglev station was only a ten minutes' walk.

In the train, it was cool and luminescent, a calming atmosphere for which Marrok was quite grateful. He sat next to his wife and took her hand in his. No one paid any attention to the lowly servants on their way home. Jannali smiled, resting her head in the crook of his neck. "I have everything we'll need in here," she whispered, clutching onto her messenger bag. It had the air of a book-bag, unsuspecting and innocent. "I thought we might keep things clean and simple tonight."

Marrok's heart pounded. He nearly broke in a sweat. "How are we going to do this?"

She put a finger to his lips. "You'll see."

Marrok sat back and stayed quiet. The maglev came to a stop after half an hour, and Jannali led them out of the station and into Sector 36. It wasn't the poorest of the sectors, not by a long shot, but it was still a stark contrast to Artemisia. The buildings were low and sparse, and between them ran long stone streets coated with dust. Marrok glanced around, his eyes wide. The last time he had been taken to an outer sector was when he was ten years old, and he didn't remember it being this decrepit.

"There's a lot more in the centre of town," said Jannali. "We'll take a little stroll and choose our prospect." Her eyes glimmered. "I usually just wait for one to come my way, but we can't be out for too long, so we'll have to bring them over to us."

Marrok changed back into the skin of the blonde boy. It was his staple glamour now, when he didn't want to be recognized. Jannali didn't let go of his hand as they made their way through the alleys into what Marrok assumed was the town square. There were a few people milling about, tired workers slumping home and teenagers out past curfew.

"Which one do you want?" Jannali whispered in his ear.

Marrok turned to her. "Pardon?"

She nudged him. "It's your hunt. You choose which one you want."

Marrok scanned the area, and he found himself lingering on a group of rowdy boys. They couldn't have been older than eighteen, and they laughed in their crude accent, rough and heavy compared to the refined dialect of the aristocracy. Marrok fixated on one in particular, who bore a strong resemblance to Jared Moonborne, from the lanky figure to the rich black hair. A surge of hatred flooded through the prince as he remembered, so vividly, Jared and his oafish brother breaking into his chambers and vandalizing his possessions. And all because he didn't address them on their first meeting.

"That one. With the black hair," said Marrok.

Jannali caught sight of the boy in question, and her lips spread into a sly grin. "Oh, yes. He's quite... _cute_ ," she crooned, and Marrok glanced at her with a raised eyebrow. In response, she kissed his cheek. "Don't be jealous."

"What told you I was jealous?"

She brushed him off and began to stalk forward. When he didn't follow, she turned and beckoned Marrok to her side. "Nice and slow. We have to get him alone. Give him a reason to leave the group."

She led him to a shop next to the alley where the boys loitered, and they slipped inside. It wasn't empty, thankfully, and it gave them a perfect cover. They pretended to look at the dust-laden products as they whispered in each other's ear.

"Can you feel his bioelectricity from here?"

Marrok nodded.

Jannali clutched his sleeve. "Good. Tell him that he needs to go. He suddenly remembered that his mother needs help at home. Remind him that his way home is the street that goes through behind the plaza."

Marrok felt for the unique glimmer that he had committed to memory moments before. Through the window, he and Jannali watched as the boy stood and excused himself, bidding goodnight to his friends. He began to walk away down the street; Jannali led Marrok out of the store and they followed a good distance behind. Marrok kept the boy on course, binding his mind to his will like an invisible leash.

They followed him a good fifteen minutes until Jannali told Marrok to loosen his grip. The prince complied, and the boy perked up and shook his head. Marrok's heart began to race in unexpected anticipation, which Jannali seemed to reciprocate.

The boy turned and frowned, aware that he had been brainwashed. "Who's there?" He barked, and for a moment, Marrok saw himself alone in the dark, caught between Ugly J's talons.

Ugly J laughed and stepped forward, slipping a knife from the bag on her hip. The déjà-vu was uncanny. "You know who I am, little chick," she spat.

Marrok couldn't see what she was doing inside his mind, but it couldn’t have been anything good. The boy's eyes became as round as saucers. "Your...Your Highness..." he spluttered, dropping to his knees. "My Princess."

"Marrok, could you kindly hold him down?" said Jannali, admiring her razor-sharp weapon. Marrok glanced at the boy, who returned his stare with eyes full of fear and bewilderment, and stalked to his side. He was kept planted to the spot by the prince as Jannali surged forward and plunged the knife into his chest.

Marrok braced himself for the gush of blood that burst forth from his torso. Jannali had jumped to the side so to avoid the downpour, grinning at her handiwork. She had hit him straight through the heart.

"Oh, he's a squirter!" Jannali chirped, bringing the body to ground. The boy's eyes were still open, staring aimlessly into space. Marrok expected to feel guilt, horror, disgust—but he was alight with excitement, flooded with desire, and awash with fear, for it could've very well been him. He watched with curiosity as Jannali stooped down and took the knife to his ankle. A bloody 'J' was left carved into his skin.

"That was..." Marrok searched for the right word. "That was so  _thrilling_ ," he gasped.

Jannali's head perked up, and Marrok was shocked to see her awed expression, her wide eyes, her pursed lips. It was the same look that she had given him before they had lain together. "Really?" Jannali asked incredulously, her voice quivering, and she was once again a teenage girl who was discovering love at first sight.

If he had told her that, though, she wouldn't have hesitated to shoot him in the leg.

 

 


	8. Grutch Who Lust But None Deny

She turned seventeen three weeks later. Jannali was reluctant to have any sort of celebration, but Aisha had already begun to plan a gala without Jannali's knowledge, and by the time she found out, it was too late to cancel the arrangements. So she was forced to sit through a false party with false gifts and false smiles.

The royal birthday was celebrated with as much extravagance as Marrok's had in April, even though Jannali had only been part of the family for five months. The ballroom, ever filled with music and laughter, was decorated in every corner with roses and silver garlands. The fifty chandeliers sparkled with crystal and diamonds, while an enormous fountain carved from marble sat in the centre of the room. Around the flowered rim flowed not water, but rich milk chocolate, in which guests could dip an array brightly-coloured fruits.

Princess Jannali had a hard time keeping the sweet liquid off her lips as she enjoyed, one after another, several plates of chocolate-coated fruit. It was either being a glutton or conversing with the court ladies, and Jannali found the former to be much more entertaining, so she sat by and hoped that she wouldn't make herself sick.

Marrok hadn't spoken to her once all evening.

This was by her instruction, though. They had to keep up the illusion of indifference to each other. The news that they had consummated their marriage spread through the court like wildfire and fizzled out just as quickly. Now, harsh whispers were shot in Jannali's direction everywhere she went, mocking sneers and malicious grins beneath fluttering lashes. They all giggled about the prince's mystery mistress and sighed that they'd love to be in her place. They hissed that Jannali should have too.

Throughout the gala, Jannali had to constantly wave away Marrok's flitting gaze, rapt with desire and longing. She too wanted to be in his arms, to dance with him and shut up all those snipping hussies. But she simply narrowed her eyes and put her hand to her breast. He could wait a few hours—then, they'd be free to make love all night.

"Oh, Jannali! I've been looking all over for you!" Cynthia chirped, and Jannali turned to see her mother approaching—alone, much to the princess' relief. As she came to a stop, Cynthia's brow furrowed. "Why, what are you doing by yourself?" She gestured out over the balcony. "This party is all for you, and yet you're holed up here!"

Jannali forced a tender grin. It was the best method of appeasing Lady Delacourt, and she called it her 'mother smile'. "I have a headache, Mama. I informed Her Majesty of this, but it must've slipped her mind." And it wasn't a lie this time—she felt an insufferable pounding in her skull, and she hoped that by the end of the ball it would subside and allow her to enjoy her time alone with Marrok.

Cynthia's blue eyes widened. "Again? It's been a long time since you've last complained about your migraines..." Lady Delacourt's gaze flitted down to Jannali's middle. "Perhaps there is another cause?"

Jannali felt heat rising in her cheeks. She hadn't considered the possibility of her being pregnant; the thought had barely crossed her mind in the past few months. "Perhaps," she whispered, bringing another strawberry to her lips.

"Well, you take it easy then," Cynthia said, pulling out a shawl from her pocket and gently wrapping it around Jannali's bare shoulders. The princess suddenly felt comforted—she hadn't even realized that she was cold. And, gently still, Cynthia came down and kissed her daughter's forehead. "May I soon have many beautiful grandchildren."

Jannali smiled, putting a hand to her flat stomach.

* * *

Cynthia had been correct in her assumption; the next day, Jannali was told by the royal family's doctor that she was five weeks pregnant. She decided to keep it a secret for the time being and the doctor willingly complied into doing the same.

Being with child did not stop her from going prospecting. She refused to let anything interfere with her night life—and besides, there was a lot of work to be done with Marrok. It wasn't until the fourth hunt that Jannali had let him actually stick it to their prospect. She then quickly realized that he had no idea how to kill properly. If she didn't educate him right—and  _soon_ —her entire life would come crumbling down and she would without a doubt be executed.

She had briefly considered just ending him there. And she could! As the child within her belly grew, she felt her place in the royal family cementing even further. Once it was born, she could do whatever she wanted with Marrok and no one would suffer, for there was another heir for the throne to fall back on.

But she quickly stamped down the thought as she remembered, her cheeks flushed, how Marrok would accompany her on every outing and jumped at the opportunity to help her take down her next victim. His eagerness to learn her craft made her soften in ways that she loathed, but the sickening thought of throwing away such an excellent mate made her stick by her decision to keep him alive.

Marrok proved to be a quick learner. Before long, he had memorized the rules of the hunt and actively sought for Jannali to take him out. He learned to kill with finesse and without leaving a trace; it was so different from court executions, where Marrok could only watch as the convicted were beheaded or stabbed or tortured. Jannali had shown him how exhilarating it was to kill up close and personal. It was only until Jannali grew too fat and tired that they stopped prospecting and committed to laying low for a while. By then, the news of the princess' pregnancy had thrown all of Luna into a frenzy. And yet, Jannali felt oddly disconnected from it all; it was an inconvenience, not a cause for celebration. Her aching feet and bulbous middle kept her bound to her bed for most of the day.

The prince kept his distance, as commanded by Jannali (as always), much to the dismay of the queen. She wanted to see her little Twinkles be a father, and not leave his exhausted wife with only the maids for company. But Marrok stayed away. At least, when under the scrutiny of the court—at night, he would often sneak into Jannali's rooms and slip into bed with her, gently massaging her feet or her back.

The idea came slowly at first—just a little thought in the back of Jannali's mind. And when the baby began to kick inside her, keeping her up at all hours of the night, it bloomed into a strong desire, the all-too-familiar bloodlust. She had often asked herself what the ultimate pleasure might be. What would be her greatest kill, her most precious prospect, the small bones of her newborn child.

_Infanticide._

It was a fantasy that filled her to the brim with excitement and curiosity. She came to want it, to  _crave_  it. And fury coursed through her every pore as she realized that she couldn't have this child, that she belonged to the crown, to Luna. By then, they knew it was a girl, and Jannali would have no say in how her daughter was raised. She had no desire to bring up a snot-nosed brat, of course, but still—the thought of having her ultimate fantasy stripped from her was infuriating.

When she had told Marrok of her new whim, she was shocked to see his expression somber and his fists clench. He had said nothing for a while before leaving Jannali's bed to go sleep in his own chambers. Jannali was left alone, cold with her nuisance child kicking up a storm. She figured that perhaps Marrok was simply going weak, the way men do, at the thought of his unborn daughter. He certainly didn't show a great interest; he was young, barely twenty, and still caught up in the whirlwind of first love. He had no time for babies. Still, he must've wanted to keep the little one out of prospecting.

But it didn't matter what Marrok thought. This child would live and become queen after her parents died. That was it; her path was set in stone. Her mother would not interfere.

But the next time, Jannali promised herself. Next time she would be free to act on her desires. Her second child would be hers to do with as she saw fit.

* * *

The princess was born in May, on the heels of her father's own birthday. Jannali was surprised by how quickly the birth passed; within three hours of her water breaking she held a screeching bundle in her arms, fists bunched and face contorted as she cried. It took all but ten minutes for Jannali to send off her daughter in the arms of a nurse, to be seen again sometime or another—before Jannali had even been released from the hospital, Aisha took it upon herself to whisk away the baby to the nursery and begin coddling her. Jannali couldn't find it in her to feel annoyed. It was a rare occasion.

Aisha gave her granddaughter the name  _Channary_ ; Jannali herself wasn't too fond of it, but she hadn't enough energy nor care to really protest. Marrok didn't seem too affected either. Throughout the celebrations of Channary's birth, he stayed by his wife and gently rubbed her healing middle, whispering sweet nothings in her ear and planting kisses on her shoulder. This was all done under the guise of the prince taking yet another mistress and leaving his wife alone in her chambers. Jannali accepted his kisses with a sort of relief—he had scarce spoken to her at all for the past month, and she was glad to see that any earlier misgivings had been forgotten.

Once in a while, she would spend some time in Channary's nursery. Unsurprisingly, Jannali had already set her sights on her next prospect. Despite it only being three months since Channary was born, she was ready to go out again. With much  _gusto_ , she did the usual analysis of her victim—from where she sat on a lush window seat, Jannali watched as Aisha waved a stuffed wolf in little Channary's face. The baby cooed loudly; she was a stupid little thing that was easily amused by anything that moved.

"Oh, Sweets, she's absolutely charming!" Aisha crooned, gently running a finger behind Channary's tiny ear. "A real angel—just like her father had been. Marrok was the most adorable little scrap..."

Jannali forced a laugh, although she was genuinely amused by the thought of her husband as a baby. She wondered if his hair had been as messy back then. "I hate to spoil your fun, My Queen," said Jannali, tightening the belt of her robe, "but may I be so inclined as to ask for a moment with her?"

Aisha blinked, then let out a laugh of her own. "Oh, you're such a well-spoken lady, Sweets. But you don't have to be like that with me. Please, call me Mother."

Jannali simply smiled as Aisha gently placed Channary in the crown princess' arms. With a little wave, the queen left the room, leaving Jannali alone with the squirming baby. Looking down, she was met with Marrok's deep brown eyes, warm like chocolate. Jannali licked her lips.

"Why, hello there," she whispered, lightly flicking the princess' nose. Baby Channary let out a mewl in response.

Jannali continued to look over the child, and was a little disappointed to find that she looked a great deal like her. Another one of her fantasies was a little girl with an ocean of freckles and Marrok's wild red mane. She gently ran a hand through Channary's thin brown hair.

It was the last that Channary would see of her mother for a good year.

 


	9. All Goodly Sport

Marrok's life had become a turbulent storm of politics, expectations and scandal. His every move was closely scrutinized either by the court or his wife. She seemed to be everywhere these days. In the background, on the throne, in his arms—it was all Jannali, Jannali, Jannali. Hidden under the glamour of yet another mistress, she was always by his side, with her intoxicating perfume and words dripping with poison.

She said that she had found their next prospect. Marrok had stood attentive, his heart racing with excitement. Until Jannali's gaze landed on Queen Aisha, who sat to the side with the baby in her arms, the baby that Marrok had seldom seen but once or twice after her christening. The prince's heart then sank, and he felt rage threaten to burst forth from his body in ways that he would most definitely regret.

He would not kill his mother. He loved his mother.

Jannali's face fell and she cuddled up to him, employing all tactics so to make her desires his, to make him agree, to make him obey. Marrok had dismissed her for the night and she did leave, without a fuss. Jannali was as calm and poised as always. But Marrok knew that Ugly J would hold this over his head for days, months, and maybe even years on end.

I always know best, Marrok. Just follow my lead and you won't get hurt.

He began to cave, and to his utter horror, he found Jannali's idea slowly becoming more and more reasonable. It started from simple squabbles over poker and and tea—soon, Marrok found himself fighting with the queen often and regularly. She would nag at him about Channary's neglect and his abundance of affairs, about how he was an irresponsible father, and how he would come to regret leaving her to the maids and never being present in her life.

"She's only a year old, Mother. She doesn't know the difference."

"The first years of any child's life are always the most important," said Aisha, putting a hand to her chest. "And your poor wife! She's always left alone in her rooms—you know how hard it is for her to fit in, with all her stress and anxiety. I would expect you to be, at the very least, courteous towards her and not have her stay shut in with nothing but her formulas."

Marrok had to dig his nails into his palms to keep himself from laughing. So that was what Jannali had been telling everyone? No wonder the courtesans glared at her like she was a sideshow attraction. And of course his kind, silly mother would believe every word. Tongue-in-cheek, he leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm afraid that is none of my concern. I have fulfilled my duty towards both Jannali and Luna by producing an heir. I no longer have any obligations with her."

Aisha fumed. "Turn around."

Marrok raised an eyebrow, which turned into a frown when he noticed his mother picking up her dreadful comb.

"Your hair is an embarrassment," Aisha barked, forcing down Marrok's shoulders. The prince plopped down and forced down a cry of frustration and anger as his mother began to pull at his curls, further tangling them. He braced himself for more pain, but he was snapped out of his trance by Aisha's sudden grabbing of his shirt collar. She pulled it towards her, peering down.

"Marrok, what's wrong with your back?" Aisha snapped, squinting. She then stood and pulled her son up with her. "Take off your shirt."

Marrok blinked. "I do beg your pardon?"

"Take off your shirt. I want to take a good look at your back—it seems like a scratch or something. Did someone hurt you?"

Marrok stood firm. He had no intention of undressing in front of his mother at twenty-one years old.

"Now," the queen hissed.

His will shattered with a sigh, and he complied, knowing that this was a battle he wouldn't win. The threat in Aisha's eyes was clear; he could either take off his shirt himself or she would rip it off him. The choice was his.

Aisha's gasps of horror did nothing to help Marrok's humiliation as she took in the marks on his back, long and crimson, laced with edges and grooves. Jannali's nails would tear through his skin every time they had sex, reopening wounds that would now never heal—he was branded with permanent scars that ran from his shoulders down to his hips. For a while now he had been going to extra lengths to prevent anyone from noticing, by dismissing the maids that had previously attended to him as he bathed and dressed, instead opting to do all of this himself. He could have simply glamoured the scars beneath a swath of flawless skin, but he had meant to send away those girls at any rate—he began to find their intrusive stares and lewd remarks discomforting in ways that he had not felt until recently.

"How did you get these?!" Aisha cried, putting a hand to her son's wounds, her eyes glistening with tears. "Is this one of those...ladies you've been hanging around with?!"

Marrok tore her grip from his shoulders and backed away. With something nearing panic, he hastily put on his shirt to hide his crude scarring from his livid mother. "It doesn't matter."

"Marrok, this is not acceptable. I'm telling your father."

"Father doesn't care about what I do in the privacy of my own bedroom." Marrok smirked. "He'd probably even commend me for having such a—"

Aisha buried her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking with her sobs. "STOP! Stop it. Do not tell me that is you, Marrok." The queen took a step forward, her eyes red and puffy. She didn't even bother to hide it. "You've changed. You don't spend time with me, you don't spend time with Lord Abrasax—"

"You're the one who told me to stop consorting with him."

"Yes, but that was—" Aisha struggled with her words. "At least when you were off gallivanting with him, you didn't come home assaulted by one of the snakes at court! She hurt my son! And you don't even seem to care!"

"I'm not hurt," Marrok sneered. "I like what she does...what she..." He threw his hands up. "It isn't what you think, Mother. You're overreacting."

Aisha's devastation only increased. "I'm your mother! It's my job to worry about you, Twinkles! Since you were born I've made you my life, and I won't stop protecting you until the day I die!"

"At least she doesn't treat me like I'm six years old!" Marrok roared, his eyes like fire and his breath ragged. "She addresses me by my name and not your ridiculous—"

Aisha sniffed. "Twinkles..."

His face nearly turned red in his rage. "I dare you to call me that again!" Marrok shoved her away, and Aisha would have fallen had she not been against the wall. "Go on! You say that I act like a child; perhaps I could learn responsibility if you would finally teach it!"

He was met with a slap to the face as Aisha backhanded him, her green eyes alight with fury. "You do not speak to your mother that way!" She screeched.

Marrok stumbled back, massaging his cheek so to avoid the swelling. He knew that his skin was already an angry red around his freckles. Aisha was the same, with her flushed face and heaving chest. "I'm growing up," Marrok declared, his fists clenched. "And if you can't come to terms with that, then I suggest that you have another son. Perhaps he'll be more obedient than I."

Aisha didn't respond, instead opting to sink down onto a cushioned chair and sob. Before, Marrok would have rushed over to comfort her. But now, he stood by the door, his thoughts swarming with darkness and his entire being screaming bloody murder.

* * *

 

Jannali was very pleased with Marrok's change of heart. From where she sat at her vanity, she watched with a smile as Marrok paced the room. He was angry. He was lost. He wanted to get rid of his burden of a mother.

For her part, Jannali was thrilled. She would never again have to endure Aisha's stupid pet name for her or the constant chatter. She would never again have to deal with the queen's annoying friends and mistresses. Once Aisha was gone, she would be the highest lady in court, and she swore to have them banished, at least from the royal family's entourage.

"Oh, Marrok..." Jannali finished applying another layer of lipstick—her war paint. "Could you kindly stop tearing through my room? You're making a mess."

The prince looked down at the robe that he was in the process of flinging on the ground. Sheepishly, he rested it back on the divan and ran a hand through his hair. "I'm assuming you already have this all planned out," he whispered.

"We go after Lady Moonborne."

Through the storm of anger, Marrok felt his heart sink further. "No. She's not a prospect."

Jannali rolled her eyes. "Everyone in this pathetic court is a prospect, Marrok. They are all at our mercy." She stood and adjusted her bodice. It was a revealing thing that plunged down between her breasts to her waist, and Jannali caught him staring more than once. Normally, this would have ignited both amusement and bloodlust, but Jannali found herself blushing like a schoolgirl and wishing for him to help her out of it. "We can't just kill Aisha out of nowhere. It would be much too suspicious."

It was odd to hear anyone address his mother by her given name, and Marrok further felt resentment coursing through his blood. She was not his mother here. She was not a queen. She was prey, and he was the hunter. "So we kill Genevieve to drive her to suicide?" Marrok glanced at his wife. "It would never work. Mother loves her, but she would never take her own life if she died."

"We make it look like a suicide. Just make her kill herself—it won't be hard. No one will even give us a second glance."

Marrok's blood rushed through his ears, turning the world into a dull thrum. He didn't want to kill Genevieve, though. She was a good woman. A good noble.

"I was thinking that we'd just break into their residence and kill the entire family; you know how many enemies they have. No one would even be surprised," said Jannali, glancing down at her nails.

Marrok stared at her again, though at her necklace instead of her chest. He still hadn't gotten over the wedges of human spine that acted as the charms. He treated it with the same silent fear that laced his every word with his wife. Throughout their hushed conversations and nights of intimacy in the dark, he had managed to keep himself from touching it.

"All of them?" Marrok breathed, hugging his chest. "But there are fifteen members of House Moonborne that live in Artemisia alone—"

Jannali thwacked him upside the head. "No, no! Just the nuclear family—the lord and lady and their two rat sons." Her smirk widened. "I know how much you hate them."

Suddenly the plan became twice as appealing—the thought of eliminating Jared and Seth Moonborne made Marrok as giddy as a kid in a candy store. His enthusiasm must've shown; Jannali came up to him and pulled him in for a kiss. He was glad to oblige. She slipped her hands around his back and sighed as he began to undo the ties of her bodice. Her lips moved against his in the grace of a perfect design, and she was once again flooded with the closest thing to love that she would ever feel.

* * *

 

It was only halfway into the long day, so nightfall took a couple hours later to arrive than Jannali would've liked. Both she and the prince retired for bed as soon as they were able, and at around two o'clock, when the entirety of Artemisia lay in sleep, they met up by the servants' quarters and snuck out together, like always. The entirety of the palace remained blissfully unaware of their disappearance.

The Moonborne residence was a half hour's walk from the Artemisia Palace's obscure back exit, and they slipped through the shadows without so much as a whisper. Genevieve's family was one of the few that lived permanently in their own mansion, instead of residing in the palace to be closer to the royal family. It was both a curse and a blessing. The domes had been coated with a dark hologram that mimicked the starry sky from the previous long night, but if one were to look in the right places, a few cracks of sunlight still managed to poke in. Marrok followed his wife through the deserted plaza, and on a wide expanse of land to the left, a magnificent mansion loomed overhead like a dark giant.

Jannali led them in behind the house, avoiding the ever-moving stares of the guards. They were sanctioned at choice places all around the property, and the two were forced to keep up the illusion of invisibility as they snuck in so to not be spotted. The inside parlour, where they had managed to find an entrance, was spotless and silent. The synthetic earthlight basked the glass floor with an eerie glow. It was fitting, Marrok supposed. He certainly felt like a ghost roaming the halls of the imposing manor. Jannali, evanescent and statuesque, made a show of sliding down the smooth floors on her socked feet. Marrok shook his head at her oddly rambunctious display and motioned her towards a door at the end of the hall.

"That's Genevieve's room," he whispered in her ear. Jannali nodded and took his hand, their eternal act of trust.

The door slid open with ease. Inside the room, Lady Moonborne slept alone in the massive four-poster bed. It was an extravagant space, well furnished with glass tables and sparkling candelabras. The candles were fake, of course, still giving off a faint holographic flame. Both paintings and holograms adorned the wall, priceless originals and recollections of various family members.

Marrok replayed the plan on repeat. They wouldn't make a mess with Genevieve. Her death would be quick and painless. She wouldn't even wake up.

Jannali reminded him of this as she tiptoed over to the sleeping noblewoman. There was no shift in Genevieve's peaceful slumber, but Marrok knew that Jannali was dragging her further down into unconsciousness, telling her brain that she was ever-so-sleepy and that she might just never wake up. Now was when he came in.

He swallowed the bile in his throat and grabbed a pillow from beside Genevieve's head. Jannali watched him like a hawk, with her eyes like sparkling stones, as he pressed the pillow to Genevieve's face. He pushed it down and smothered the woman's airways, effectively suffocating her. Genevieve didn't put up any resistance, as was expected—she was too far gone for even her body to have any response. Marrok forced himself to meet Jannali's elated gaze, and as the minutes passed, he forgot his unease and lost himself in the rush and adrenaline. He wondered if it would ever get old.

"She's dead," Jannali hissed, showing Lady Moonborne's wrist as if to prove it. Marrok took her other wrist to check her pulse, and sure enough, the was none to be found. Genevieve was as dead as a doorknob.

He pulled away the pillow and let it fall to the floor. Genevieve's lips had turned a sickly blue and her eyelids had somehow opened throughout the ordeal. As he stared into her dead orbs, he tried to force guilt, remorse, pain, anything—but there was nothing. Nothing at all. The thrill was so intense that it erased everything but the desire to kill.

He spun on his heel and moved to leave the room with one destination in mind; the boys' shared chambers were on the second floor and Marrok was flooded with the desire to tear off both of their heads. Jannali, however, grabbed him by his collar before he could go past the door and pulled him into her embrace.

"Not so fast." She kissed him behind the ear and he wrapped his arms around her waist. "Where are you going?"

"Jared and Seth are downstairs—"

They were cut off by heavy footsteps, and they froze. Their invisible glamour still intact, they watched with wide eyes as Lord Moonborne stalked down the hall, his hair dishevelled and his coat haphazardly buttoned at the wrong places. He did a double take as he noticed his wife's open bedroom door. Jannali and Marrok stayed in each other's arms, blending into the background, and poised to kill if anything went wrong. He couldn't see them. His wife was sleeping, not dead. There was no concern here.

The man shrugged and shut the door; they stayed still like statues until his footsteps disappeared down the stairs. "This is why you wait for me," Jannali mumbled, shaking him off. "That could've been a disaster."

Marrok stepped aside and let Jannali lead them out downstairs. He stopped her at the third door, where he distinctly remembered the brothers running off to whenever the royals would come for tea. Both boys were sound asleep in their beds, one on each side of the main bedroom. Even though they were both seventeen, they still stuck together like a couple of bratty children. It was just as well, Marrok thought. He wouldn't have to go far to kill them both.

Jannali closed the door gently behind them and locked it. She would stand by the far wall—Marrok had free reign over those two. The prince bore a toothy grin as he stalked over to sleeping Jared and tore off his lush duvet. To Marrok's annoyance, Jared simply rolled over and began to snore. An angry locust, the prince grabbed Jared by the ear and tugged him upright. The boy let out a bellow that was quick to wake his brother.

Seth jumped out of bed and grabbed a nearby lamp, baring it like a wooden club. It certainly added to the primitive air that he always carried around. "Who the hell are—"

He was cut off instantly and his hands wrapped around his throat. Jannali tucked her hands innocently in her sleeves, much like a thaumaturge. Marrok grabbed the fleeing Jared by the arm and forced him down on his knees. As the boy flopped like a fish, Marrok felt pride surge through his veins. With the months of constant exercise and training that Jannali had put him through, he had gained a great deal of strength, and it was the most rewarding thing in the world, dominating someone so easily. He would've liked to see his father call him weak now.

By the way Jared's eyes widened in terror, Marrok knew that he recognized him. Jared had seen him enough without his glamour that he couldn't ever forget the prince's fiery hair.  
"I don't appreciate you breaking my things," he said slowly, as if Jared were three years old. Marrok grabbed a length of rope from his pocket and gently wrapped it around the boy's collar. Seth, still gripping his own throat, watched with growing horror as Marrok began to tighten the rope around his brother's neck.

"Pull a thread..."

Jared's head snapped back with the force of Marrok's grip.

"Pull a thread..."

Jannali joined into her husband's humming. Seth's lips were turning the same blue as his mother's, and he stuck out his tongue in the only movement he could manage.

"Pull, and pull, and tug tug tug..."

The prince tightened and tightened until Jared's neck made a horrible cracking sound. The rope was released, and Jared's head fell lopsided over his shoulder. Blood poured from his mouth. And, as if by magic, Seth released his cinched neck and fell into a lifeless heap on the carpet. His eyes were as dead as Genevieve's and his lips were coated with saliva.

Marrok took his rope and tucked it back into his pocket. Jannali, ever the professional, walked over the corpses with a skip to her step and took her husband's hand. Squeezing it. Kissing his lips. Whispering her adoration.

They decided to forgo Lord Moonborne, whom they found passed out on the sofa in the antechamber. It was about time that they made their exit. They returned to the palace, again, without a sound, and found the warmth of their own bed.

And they dreamed of nothing.


	10. My Heart Is Set

As expected, Queen Aisha had fallen into a great depression following the death of her beloved. She wore nothing but grey and would not leave her chambers for a week at a time; on worse days, she would refuse to eat and as a result had grown quite skinny. It was a shame, the maids would say, for the queen had the most beautifully buxom figure. But even if she hadn't become rail-thin, the dreary velvet gowns she moped around in wouldn't have done it justice.

The three-day mourning period for Lady Moonborne and her two sons had long since passed, but everyone knew that it would take Her Majesty much longer to recover from her loss. The court had begun to grow impatient with Aisha's constant seclusion. By consequence, a lot of Artemisia's glitz and cheer had faded without the party queen to raise their spirits with another boisterous feast. The king made no effort to try and bring his wife out of her misery, and neither did her son.

By then, Marrok still hadn't been hit by the guilt and pain that he had been bracing himself for. Instead, he found himself waiting with bated breath for when he could seal her in her grave for good. It hadn't occurred to him at the time, that if his younger self could see him then, he would be horrified. No, he was too drunk on his newfound power and his lust for Jannali to truly see beyond his actions.

But it would begin to seep through. In the few spare moments he had with his mother, he could see it in her blank stare, such a drastic change from cheerful, bubbly Aisha. She had no proof, of course, that he was involved with Genevieve's death in any way. No one else at court showed the slightest suspicion towards their prince and princess, as Jannali had promised. In Aisha's eyes, though, Marrok could see the blame and disappointment tumbling like a frothy potion. Somehow, she knew. Maybe not directly, for if she did then Marrok would have already been punished to kingdom come, but in the back of her mind it was clear—her little Twinkles had dimmed to nothing but blood.

It had to go slowly, Jannali would remind him. Every day they would push a little bit further. Make her see things. Flood her with despair. Give her the impression that the long night would last forever and she would never again catch a glimpse of Luna's artificial sunlight.

"You are alone," Marrok had once heard the queen mumble. " _There is no one in your head but you._ "

She was wrong. From the sides, in Aisha's sleep, during meals, Marrok and Jannali sat by and watched with amusement the slow unraveling of the woman who was once the rose of Artemisia. The king and the queen's close friends had deserted her, unwilling to put up with her constant gloom. She had been forced to seek help from several crown-sanctioned psychologists, and they all recommended that she go on strong antidepressants and hope for the best. But all the drugs and therapy in the world were powerless under the three months of constant manipulation by the king's son and a daughter of House Delacourt.

Marrok supposed that was another reason behind his father's insistence on Jannali as his bride. House Delacourt was one of the most talented families aside from that of Blackburn, and a reputation of producing an abundance of accomplished thaumaturges. With she and Marrok, a descendant of Cyprus Blackburn, together, they would surely produce children with glamour so strong that they would be envy of all of Luna.

Channary was not yet two and so far the only hint of glamour she had shown was the occasional distorting of her appearance during a temper tantrum. Which, as of late, had become more and more frequent as she was denied constant access to her grandmother. She had grown used to the queen's constant coddling and did not like to be without some kind of attention.

But Aisha only continued to slip away, and on a dull Thursday afternoon, one of her ladies-in-waiting walked into her chambers to find her bridal crown from when she married Tybalt shattered on the floor in an explosion of pearls and gold. There were bloodstains on the carpet that continued into a trail to where Aisha sat in her porcelain tub. A knife had fallen to the ground, and the deep cuts up her wrist drained into her crimson bathwater.

The servants were quick to clean up the mess and Luna was once again led through mourning. Although they grieved their queen,  _of course they did_ , her suicide came as a surprise to no one. And before long, the kingdom's attentions had been turned to King Tybalt, who was growing older and more tired with every court meeting and political function. By the way of the nobility, they began to secretly hope for the day when the new power would replace the old one at last.

The people did not have to wait long for this; within six months of his wife's death, Tybalt lost his life in a regolith explosion not far from one of the mining sectors. Along with the three thaumaturges and six court members that had accompanied him on this annual inspection trip, nothing remained of the old monarch within the dust and ash but the crisp smell of burnt flesh.

There wasn't even a body to bury.

Marrok had no time to even hear about his father's end before he was thrust into chaos. Suddenly, in the wee hours of the night, he was forced awake by the banging on his door and shouts that could be heard throughout the palace. It was the one odd time where Jannali decided on sleeping in her own rooms, leaving the crown prince alone to face the mob on the other side.

His heart hammering, Marrok opened the door and braced himself for the worst. He was met with servants, guards and thaumaturges, all pink in the face and crying with grief and joy: "The king is dead! Long live King Marrok of Luna!"

* * *

 

No expense had been spared for his coronation, which took place a mere week after his father's sudden passing. Artemisia bloomed anew after being in and out of constant mourning; the buildings, which had previously taken on a grey air, glowed white with pride. Death was no longer the master of this fair city teeming with lies in every corner, for Marrok was on the verge of taking its place.

It had taken until that day for him to begin missing his mother. Jannali would be replacing her now, as queen consort. Marrok had wanted to name her queen regnant, his equal in every sense, but Jannali was quick to protest and disapprove. Lunar monarchs didn't often tend to share their power with their spouses, and those who did were always caught in the court's hideous backlash. Jannali said that they wouldn't be the ones to evoke the wrath of the aristocracy. They wouldn't stand out. They would attract no particular attention. For that was the serial killer's greatest talent, after all—the ability to blend in seamlessly.

Marrok obeyed,  _of course he did_. And as he secretly watched Jannali getting dressed for the ceremony, a dull ache made itself known in his gut. She was striking in a white gown teeming with black lace and rubies stitched in every fold of fabric. Her pale glamour had been refined still, and her purple eyes met his for an electrifying second before he stole away to go and get ready himself. The image of her pale-pink lips and chalky complexion made him cringe. It wasn't Jannali. But of course it wasn't—the new queen was an illusion of simplicity and invisibility, just like the court wanted to believe. His beautiful Jannali, his Ugly J, was his alone to admire, to touch, to love.

The coronation was drawing closer. Marrok sat by and allowed himself to be fitted into his ceremonial dress. And during the tedious process, he decided that he would be the same for Jannali. His true appearance would be something he kept only for his wife, just as hers was solely for him. Alone, with only moments before he was due to walk down the aisle to receive the crown, he changed his glamour from the blonde boy to a silver god, tall and lithe and made of marble. His red hair had straightened to a near-white shade tucked around his ears. He made himself in Jannali's image, as pale as the moon and his eyes a deep, mesmerizing green, like a poisoned apple.

The trumpets blared. The doors opened. Marrok gulped and smiled with radiance as he entered the great hall, where he was met with the thunderous applause of all the aristocracy that had gathered to witness the crowning of their new king. He cast a glance over to Jannali, who stood to the side of the altar, eyes wide with amusement. She obviously approved of his new costume. In the audience, Marrok also caught sight of little Channary, now the heir to the throne. She payed no attention to her father's coronation and instead opted to play with her stuffed toy on the pew. At least her governess had the sense to give her a distraction so to keep her quiet.

The court was soon silenced at they seated themselves and the ceremony began. The crown prince was told to kneel. Marrok glanced up the officiant, the same nameless face that had performed his wedding, as he placed his father's crown on his head. The vows that he was expected to say came pouring off his tongue with a surprising amount of sincerity. He had always thought that he would never truly be ready to rule. His father had not been the perfect king, not by a long shot, and Marrok couldn't even measure up to him. But now, looking at all the grotesquely glamoured nobles staring up at him with their sneering eyes, he felt power settling into every pore, every fibre of his being. He was the predator. They were the prey.

Jannali, from where she stood at the side, showed no emotion whatsoever. Yet, Marrok could sense the same coming from her, pride and lust managing to push through her immaculate facade. The cup filled with dark wine, to symbolize the blood of the people, was brought to him. Marrok smiled and sipped it slowly, relishing in the sharp tang of iron and terror that ruled his tongue instead of grape.

The blood of his people. The blood of his prospects.

_The blood of his blood._

* * *

 

Noble after noble paraded about the courtyard, flaunting their twinkling outfits and perfect glamours. Music filled the air and spun as the violins turned and the flutes tittered above all else. The reception was being held in the vast open of the palace's front property instead of the ballroom; Marrok thought that they needed a change of scenery. The long night had fallen once again, and no sunlight had been projected all day, instead showcasing the ocean of stars and faint galaxies on the canvas of space. Silver lamp-posts draped with white lilies flanked the edge of the yard, and the aristocrats were free to dance on the smooth glass beneath their feet. It was quite reflective, but at that point in the night no one really seemed to mind that their glamour was rendered moot.

And endless flow of congratulations and wishes to his future health came Marrok's way, and he accepted every one with a smile. Dancing was a constant affair that night—he always had some lady or another twirling in his arms and fishing for his attentions. All except Jannali, who danced with men that hovered much too close for the king's liking. Now that she was queen, she was surely expected to take on lovers and maybe even produce a few bastards. The thought made him writhe with jealousy and discomfort, for most of these lords were twice her age. But the nineteen-year-old queen was anything but fickle. She had only ever shown desire for her husband.

Marrok felt like a hypocrite at his immature qualms—it was all part of the show. Those men were like Jannali's father, and Marrok knew well what had become of him. And surely Jannali felt the same way about the flirtatious girls that would've given anything to warm the king's bed. As the sea of people tumbled into a new current, Marrok longed to get ahold of his wife and bring her close to him, to kiss her passionately in front of everyone, to reassure her that she was the only one he would ever want, and to be reassured as well. But Jannali managed to slip away every time, swept into the arms of yet another leering snake as a ravishing noblewoman accepted the king's hand instead. And every time, she would glance back at him with a sly grin.

Marrok began to grow tired of her little game, though. So he pulled himself from the crowd and made his way to a table overflowing with every kind of dessert imaginable. The chocolate tarts, he decided, were good enough to deserve a second commission. He would have to ask for the baker's name.

He heard squeals and giggles from where his daughter sat alone but for her governess, who made sure to watch her closely as she failed to weave flowers into a crown. She had plucked the blooms from a vine on the wall and tore them before she managed to put the flowers into her hair. Instead of getting angry, though, Channary simply laughed as the remnants of petals and stems fluttered to the ground. Marrok smiled and walked up to the child, which garnered no response from her, even though the governess was quick to stand and bow before her monarch.

"Channary?" Marrok asked, kneeling down to the baby's height. "What are you doing?"

Again, no response. The governess cleared her throat and Channary glanced up at her. "Your Highness, His Majesty wishes to speak to you."

Channary's eyes widened. "Who?"

"The king," the governess whispered, obviously mortified. Marrok, for his part, was taken aback. Had he really been so absent that the child didn't even recognize her own father?

Flustered, the governess bowed again. "My apologies, Your Majesty. It's late and Her Highness is quite tired, but she refuses to go to bed—"

Marrok held up a hand and the woman fell silent. "Are you having fun with the flowers, Channary?"

The princess finally turned to him. Her mouth was open slightly and her tiny fingers still grasped onto the destroyed lilies. "No," she murmured.

"Well, if you're bored, would you be so kind as to allow me this next dance?" Marrok held out his hand, and in the tense silence that followed, his mother's words began to creep back into his mind.  _The first years of any child's life are always the most important._

Channary narrowed her eyes and let the flowers fall to the floor. She stared at the king, taking him in, calculating this stranger's odd familiarity. Finally, she shook her head and crawled over to her governess. "Bed," she declared, pointing towards the palace.

"But Your Highness, His Majesty wants to—"

" _Bed!_ " Channary whined, gripping onto the woman's skirts. The governess glanced apologetically at the king.

"It's alright," said Marrok, already beginning his retreat. "She should be getting to sleep anyway."

* * *

 

_She's only a year old, Mother. She doesn't know the difference._


	11. For My Pastance

It already seemed as if all of Luna belonged to him.

Marrok eased into his new position as well as he'd hoped, and now, attending court even proved to be a pleasure. Every noble would bow to him on their way in and do the same after dismissal. Evreything was  _Your Majesty this, Your Majesty that._ Marrok's title nearly made him swoon. His parents were finally out of his hair, and he was the sole ruler of the beautiful white planet. Luna was his, his alone, and he was the crown jewel of the Blackburn line.

Not to mention, his stunning queen kept him quite busy at night—whether in bed or out prospecting, though, depended on the day. Sometimes, when Jannali was particularly bored, it would be both.

But nothing came without a shadow on the canvas. Now that he was king, Marrok found it harder and harder to sneak away to hunt. And with every day, he could tell that it was having an effect on Jannali, by the subtle way her eye would twitch and her lips would purse when he denied her in favour of tackling mounds of paperwork. So, to compensate, they began to claim more than one victim on each outing. They never hunted in the same place twice, and heaven forbid that anything became routine—routine was what Jannali killed to get away from.

It was a prudent practice; it had to be if Jannali allowed it. Marrok remained wary, though, and he simply prayed that the court didn't notice his nerves. But as he granted his bimonthly audience with the head of national security, he soon realized that this was the wrong order of concern.

The reports were tedious and repetitive, problems that Marrok knew all too well about and that seemed to be unsolvable. Seated on his throne with his stomach growling, he forced himself to pay attention to what he was being told. He was hungry, but found it too wearisome to have a servant scramble up and bring him something he would have no appetite for in two minutes' time. Instead, he opted to fiddle with his wedding band and struggle keep himself awake.

Venerable Annotel—a young man of twenty whom Marrok had already begun to tire of—had been given the honour of speaking on his head thaumaturge's behalf. He prattled on about how the many labourers in the poorest areas of the moon were growing even more angry. There had been word of riots, boycotting shifts, increased theft. The many shells in the various cities were being cast out of their homes, losing any wealth they had. It was no surprise that they began forming gangs, taking whatever they could find. It was still unnoticeable in the city-states, but in the mining and lumber sectors, it was shells against gifted, an endless feud.

With a cutesy little grin, Annotel was quick to remind him of this. "I'm not saying that we should incarcerate them, but extra manpower is definitely needed in the outer sectors."

Marrok nodded. "You have the right idea—hire more men on the police force. Send them out with the fifth-tier thaumaturges for extra security. It will create more jobs, and hopefully dispel some of the tension."

"But that's only half of Thaumaturge Haddon's concerns," Annotel continued, flipping through police reports. "The criminal death toll has  _tripled_  over the past six months, and as you know, one of our most wanted killers has a tendency to...ah..." he clasped his hands in front of him, "mark her territory."

Marrok leaned back on his throne and said nothing.

"Over two-thirds of the bodies bear her signature."

"And? If you haven't caught her by now the fault lies in you. My father had been ordering her arrest for years now. In fact, I do have to ask if the current state of security is sufficient," he glowered.

Annotel stood frozen with his portscreen in hand. For one terrifying second, Marrok was petrified that he might have made a mistake. "We have reason to believe that she does not work alone, My King."

Marrok blood curdled and he felt ice creeping up his toes. His hunger disappeared amidst the nausea. This was it, he was caught, done for—

_Smarten up. The last thing you want is to show your anxiety. You're a king; act like one, damn it._

He forced a look of concern upon his face and relaxed even further into his seat. "Why do you say that?"

" _Ugly J,_ " Annotel said the name like an expletive, "has never killed like  _this_  before." He displayed an image of a corpse, with an open back where Marrok remembered plunging in a shank. "She has also never killed women before. At least, not under this alias. The force thinks that she has been with a partner, and I must say that I believe them."

Marrok forced his gaze down his nose. It wasn't hard, given that he was all the way on the dais and Annotel stood on the floor, minuscule in comparison to the vast grandeur of the throne room. "You told me last time that you had suspects." They were all wrong, of course, but Marrok wasn't about to begin pointing that out.

"All dead. Two took their own lives and the rest were executed, but Ugly J is still at large."

The king closed his eyes and barely managed to bite back a smile. He pictured how Jannali would've been in this situation; calm, poised, bored, indignant. Her beautiful eyes would bore into Annotel's as she held out her blood-stained hands for all to see, but he wouldn't notice. They would never notice.

The empty room revealed nothing. Where over two hundred nobles usually crowded to meet was now a desert, a twinkling emptiness. These audiences had always been held in private, for the court did not really care to spend their days dealing with rebellious peasants and obscure criminals. Unless it was execution day, of course. Marrok dismissed Annotel with a silent threat:  _find them._

* * *

"Oh, that's just precious," the queen chided, fixing yet another sapphire onto the chain of her newest necklace. Jannali had promised herself that she'd given up tinkering with jewelry like a filthy prospect, but as of late, she needed something to keep her fingers busy. The necklace wasn't for her, oh no—she had her bones, and that was all. But it was something she knew that her airhead daughter would appreciate, with her love for shiny things, so she intended on keeping it for Channary's birthday.

Marrok came up behind her and gently rubbed her shoulders. Jannali melted into his touch—she loved when he would play the doting husband. "He said that they know you're not alone," he laughed.

"Of course I'm not alone! There are others all over Luna!"

Marrok let go of her and quirked an eyebrow. "Pardon?"

"Don't tell me that you thought we were the only killers around," Jannali asked mockingly, setting her unfinished necklace down on the glass table. "I have plenty of friends all over the country."

"And when were you going to introduce me to these 'friends'?"

Jannali shrugged. "Never, I guess. I mean, many of them are gone now. Moved on to greater things."

Marrok took a seat beside the queen and rested his head on her shoulder. "Such as?"

"They've left for Earth. A lot more freedom and ground there; so much easier to hide, with so many places to go."

Marrok's eyes bugged, and he glanced at the door to make sure it was shut; for such an incredulous thing could easily be heard by the staff and spread to the court. He had heard rumours of Lunars running off to their sister planet, but he had always assumed it was just shell ingrates that had nothing left on their motherland. Now, it was serial killers that just came and went as they pleased?

"But," Jannali held up a finger, "I do have a friend who still lives in Elathia. Although it's something I would never do, she has pretty much given up her career to care for her baby."

Marrok stared at her apprehensively. "And would I know her?"

"Surely—she's the daughter of Lord Mira."

The king made a face. Lord Mira had six daughters; how was he supposed to know which one?

"He governs Elathia..." Jannali folded her hands in her lap, "he was the head of finance before he left Artemisia..."

"I know very well who he is. I  _don't_  know which one of his daughters is an ex-serial killer."

"Alegria Mira. She's the one who taught me most of what I now." Jannali brushed her hair back. The action was graceful and elegant, like everything the queen did. "Of course, much of my technique is my own, but an eleven-year-old has to learn from  _somewhere_. She was my nanny of sorts."

"And I suppose that makes you mine."

Jannali stood and the stray pearls that had gathered in the folds of her skirt clattered to the floor. She payed them no mind. "I could take you to meet her, if you like. It's been a while since we've seen each other—since before the wedding, I think." Jannali pouted. "Oh, that's sad; a visit is definitely due."

Marrok thought for a moment. It  _had_  been a while since he visited Elathia himself; perhaps it would be good for him to leave the stress of court for a little while. The city-state boasted the largest and most relaxing environment on Luna, with rivers and trees and flowers to his heart's content.

"That sounds wonderful," he said, tucking a lock of Jannali's hair behind her ear.

* * *

The trip to Elathia took six hours, between the stops in the outer sectors and the small break that Jannali insisted they take in Elysion. Along for the ride was their usual entourage and the young princess, who had never been outside the capital—her governess thought it would be good for Channary to discover her country and insisted that she come along.

Inside the vast dome, the city of Elathia offered a peaceful sight. There were no bustling streets like in Artemisia, and the business centres were far and in-between; instead, vast parks and synthetic meadows rolled amidst the quaint houses. Even the servants here were wealthy in comparison to their comrades elsewhere. Channary pressed her face against the window of the hover in the most unladylike fashion, awed by the empty paradise. It was a different world, inhabited by nobles who preferred the air of peasants.

Only when they arrived at the Mira estate did Jannali allow herself to smile. She hadn't been there in a painfully long time, and she found herself missing the large garden and vast basement where Alegria would show her how to properly dismember corpses. At the sparkling entrance, she found her old friend waiting in an angelic white dress and her hair swaying in the artificial breeze. By her side, a little girl stood bashfully behind her mother's skirts.

The king and queen descended from the ramp after their guards, with Channary and her governess close behind. Alegria beamed and curtsied. "Your Majesty," she said, facing the king. Her voice was a love-sung lullaby that Jannali had once tried to imitate, before she realized that it wouldn't fit her facade. "On behalf of my father, it is my greatest honour to welcome you here in Elathia. I hope that our hospitality does not prove too humble."

Marrok bowed in turn. "Thank you, Your Ladyship. Her Majesty has spoken quite well of you."

Alegria turned to Jannali and her eyes sparkled. She knew very well what she meant to say.  _Well well, what do we have here?_

"Shall we speak in private, Lady Mira?" Jannali spoke softly, meekly, earning her a look of amusement from her friend.

"I've arranged for a little luncheon in my private quarters, where we'll be able to catch up. Will you be joining us, My King?" Marrok nodded. With satisfaction, Alegria turned to her daughter and smoothed her hair. "Sybil, would you like to show Her Highness your playroom?"

Sybil stepped forward and curtsied to the princess. Channary eyed her with scrutiny and stuck next to her governess. Jannali watched this exchange with interest, taking in the sight of Alegria's fabled child—the girl was the spitting image of her mother, with warm honey skin and silken black hair.

Alegria laughed. "Oh, they'll warm up to each other soon. Now please, won't you give me the pleasure of your company?"

Jannali swept past her entourage and up the steps, Marrok following suit. Alegria certainly proved to be a courteous host—the light meal prepared for them was pleasantly fresh and the servants were beyond efficient. From inside Alegria's private quarters, one could admire a lovely pond overgrown with pink blossoms.

"So tell me, Jannali—how did you manage to wrangle in such a fine catch?"

Alone in the comfort of the living room, Alegria was quick to give up all formality and address the queen as if they were girlfriends at the market. If Marrok was bothered, he didn't show it.

"Oh, he's amazing," Jannali sighed, cuddling up to her husband. "At first, I planned to kill him, but he asked to come prospecting and one thing lead to another...isn't that right?"

Marrok smiled, but before he managed to say anything, Alegria cut him off. "I do envy you. It's been so long since Navid left...I miss him every day you know. Sybil always asks about him, and I have to tell the poor thing that he's gone."

Marrok wanted to ask what happened, but something in her tone suggested that he was one of the friends that had moved on to  _greater things._  He decided to stay quiet and felt very much like an outsider as the two women chatted up a storm. Regret and sadness came to fill his silence and he found himself missing James, the days of camaraderie and friendship that he had vowed would last forever. James hadn't been at court for a while now, and Marrok wondered if he would ever return.

He didn't want to doubt it, but somehow, he suspected that James had also moved on to greater things.


	12. For Idleness Is Chief Mistress

Despite having spent the afternoon together, Sybil and Channary did not come to get along. Quite the opposite, in fact; Sybil came rushing into her mother's chambers with tears in her eyes, complaining that the princess had taken all her toys and barricaded them.

"She told me that she'd put me under the rest if I took them back," Sybil sniffed.

"Under _arrest_ , dear." Alegria ran a hand through the girl's hair.

Jannali took the king's hand in hers and smirked. "Should we let her get away with it, dear?"

"Of course not," said Marrok. With both annoyance and slight embarrassment, he called for one of the guards. "Tell Channary that I order her to return Lady Sybil's toys to her," Marrok told him. "Such behaviour is unacceptable, and if she refuses, then she's to return to the palace immediately."

The guard did as he commanded, but by then, Sybil had no desire to return to her rooms and play with the ruthless princess. She instead opted to remain on Alegria's lap and listen in on the adults' conversation.

"You've never met Their Majesties before, have you?" Alegria crooned. Sybil shook her head.

"You are a very lovely girl," said Jannali, fiddling with the lace on her fan. "Your mother has been telling us that she hasn't taken you out prospecting."

"What's...prospecting?" Sybil asked, clutching onto her mother's hand.

"It's just a little game that we play. A game for adults."

Marrok crossed his arms over his chest. "What games to do you like to play, Sybil?"

"Well..." The child looked up at the ceiling. "Me and my friends like to play thaumaturge sometimes."

Both Marrok and Jannali raised an eyebrow. Alegria forced Sybil's head down so that she could look at her sovereigns in the eye. "Speaking of which, was there not something that you wanted to ask Their Majesties?"

The girl seemed sheepish as she thought of what to say. "Could I...could I become a thaumaturge someday? When I'm grown up?"

"That will take a lot of training, depending on which rank you're aiming for." The queen's smile had frozen on her face.

Sybil seemed perplexed and disappointed, obviously not understanding. She was barely three years old; what was she doing, fancying herself a thaumaturge? Her gift hadn't even really manifested itself yet. Jannali didn't say any of this, though, to avoid Alegria's wrath. She knew enough from the past three hours of conversation that the woman was very protective of her little girl.

"Oh, don't worry." Alegria picked her up and set her on the floor. "You're still young—you should be going out to play."

Sybil looked back at Alegria. "But I don't want to."

"Shoo," said Alegria, waving her hand. "You have a piano lesson in half an hour, anyway."

Both Marrok and Jannali still held each other's hands as they watched Sybil leave with much reluctance. Alegria sat back down with a flourish, and she smiled that toothy grin of hers. Marrok was reminded of an organ's ivory keys.

"I'm sorry about that," Jannali laughed. "Channary has never been one to share."

"Oh, neither has Sybil. I'll bet she's just as guilty as your girl."

The two once again began to prattle on, and Marrok excused himself to get a bit of rest. His time in the city continued much like this, at least until the last night when Jannali insisted that they all go to hunt, for old time's sake. The queen insisted that it would be great fun.

When the sun rose the next morning, Marrok decided that their visit had gone on long enough and the royal family returned to the palace, where the gaping maws and eager claws of the court waited to pull them back into the tedious thrum of life in Artemisia. The king was their favourite thing to chase, and the nobles would hound him with questions and requests for an audience. Courtiers demanded positions in every office, and before long Marrok was forced to create more and more fake jobs just to keep them satisfied. He didn't remember his father being harassed like this; was he too much of a pushover?

And to make matters worse, Jannali's irritation returned full-force and it became a bomb that was ready to detonate at any moment. Every day he felt her breath hissing on his neck and her nails digging into his flesh as she took out her frustration. There was nothing worse, he knew, than a bored killer.

But prospecting didn't seem to appease Jannali anymore; by the time evening rolled around Marrok was often too tired to even think. He would fall asleep by nine and leave Jannali twiddling her thumbs. The queen despised going out alone—she was addicted to the thrill of having her beautiful husband by her side, a graceful creature that murdered like a god and hunted like a panther. She didn't want to kill if she wasn't able to watch him do it as well. So she was confined to endless days with the court ladies and sneaking off as the king's newest mistress, but even that charade had become tiresome. Locking themselves in a room or a closet during their lustful ruts began to feel less like passion and more like a chore.

Through all this, though, Jannali never snapped. Months passed, and then a year—still, no sign of anything drastic that might break the queen's composure. She still neglected her daughter and her husband was the wall on which she painted her complaints. It was all taking a toll on Marrok, that much was obvious to anyone, but Jannali's quiet rage always prevented him from finding any peace.

He was afraid, he realized. Afraid of what she might do if left idle like this. He had no one in whom he could confide—James was a nonentity in his life and Alegria was unhelpful when it came to serious conversation. She simply laughed and said that Jannali would eventually relax. Marrok had wanted to scream at her. How could the queen relax, when she spent her time faking vapidity and frivolity while her fury flowed like molten lead through her veins?

Sometimes, when Jannali would finish ranting and fall asleep at his side, Marrok thought of his mother. He wondered if she would've been happy with his rule. If she would've still loved him. If she would've still been enamored with the spoiled little brat that Channary had become. At five years old, she ruled the other children at court and terrorized the servants at every turn with her endless demands and tantrums. If she didn't get what she wanted as quickly as she liked, everyone was quick to pay for it. Her parents would rarely offer to spend time with her and when they did, Channary was quick to refuse, instead opting to go hide in her expensive playhouse.

To this day, Aisha's words still haunted him. It was true; he had abandoned Channary, and look what had become of her—she refused to listen to her tutors and constantly skipped her lessons in favor of showing off her new dresses to some hapless noble girls. She was the next queen, and yet, she didn't even seem aware of that fact. At the very least, she didn't seem to give a damn.

The idea began to grow in the back of his mind during an exceptionally dull meeting with the manager of AR-4. He drowned out the woman's constant talking and lost himself in his thoughts. Channary paid no heed to her parents, just as they took no interest in her. She belonged to the crown and all she had in common with them was her genes. But Marrok began to notice some of the other noblemen at court, how they would pamper their sons and daughters with affection and praise. They prattled on about their accomplishments and how proud they were. The king wondered if he could love a child like that, given that he had the opportunity to raise them himself.

He knew that Jannali would be difficult to persuade. Enduring a second pregnancy was not quite desired, after the inconvenience that the process had shown before. The queen would not want to relinquish her body for the nine months it would take to produce another heir. But Marrok saw it as the only way to break the monotony of their royal lives—and that maybe, just maybe, Jannali could also discover the joys of motherhood.

* * *

He was really beginning to get on her last nerve.

Jannali could hardly stand to put with Marrok rhapsodizing over how much he longed for a second child. He said that pregnancy would prove to be a distraction and that afterwards, they'd have a new baby all to themselves to pass the time. Marrok's ignorant remarks only increased her anger. Who was he to say what would be a distraction? It wasn't him that would have to live with what was essentially a parasite for the better part of nine months. It wasn't him that would have to work to maintain his figure after the child was born. She wanted more opportunities to kill, not something that would keep her chained to her bed with fatigue.

It took a good year and a half for her to agree. It wasn't a gradual change of mind; oh no, it came suddenly and unbidden. As she bowed to a pregnant aristocrat one night during the  _salon_ , Marrok's desire became hers and she wanted to have a child in her belly just like the meek Lady Yocheved. But she didn't want it to love and coddle. Her ultimate fantasy, that she had so desperately shoved to the back of her mind, filled her every thought and dream. She could do it this time. She could kill a baby,  _her_  baby, just like she wanted. Doing so would appease her increasing bloodlust and leave her sated for a good while. She nearly burst through the halls in her excitement, and in preparation for their next night together, the queen began forgoing her daily birth control pills. So what if Marrok didn't go out with her as much as she craved? She would get something even better than a peasant prospect.

Everything had to be perfect. Jannali had turned his room (although she liked to think of it as their room) into a warm haven as she waited for him to return from his final errands of the day. She had drawn the curtains and turned on the holographic fireplace. The walls, basked in yellow and orange, made Jannali feel soft and aglow with want—it was the effect she was going for. Beneath her robe, she wore nothing but a flimsy piece of silk that could barely be considered a nightgown. Satisfied, she sat on the bed with her book of formulas in hand and studied them again, like she had a hundred times before, as she waited for her lover's return.

She did not have to wait long; Marrok walked in with a look that indicated pleasant surprise at what Jannali had done with the place. He took off his coat and locked the door behind him, leaving his guards out in the hallway. "What's all this?" Marrok asked, although he already knew the answer.

"Just come and kiss me," Jannali crooned, slipping off her robe and revealing her lacy garments. " _Please_."

Before either of them realized it, they were both intertwined on the bed with his lips to her neck. The fire flickered without a pause as they continued their kisses. They sank down and their passion was reignited, as they moved in ways they had a thousand times before. Jannali held him in her arms, lost in the pleasure of their union. He was her perfect fit. Her king, her mate, her husband.

_You will be my stars at night and my sun at dawn._

Her everything.


	13. The Worst Eschew

The news spread through the palace with unbelievable speed, and only one thing was on anyone's lips: Queen Jannali was once again pregnant. After a couple weeks of nausea and headaches, Jannali had this fact confirmed by the royal family's new doctor, Elliot-something-or-other.

Marrok was elated at first, and he found himself already daydreaming the future. Would it be a prince or a princess? Would they be intelligent, beautiful, talented, nimble...

And would they love him as he hoped he'd love them?

The brief blip of joy was soon dimmed, though, as Jannali became quite ill. It wasn't just typical morning sickness—although she was only three months along, she still had to spend whole days in bed simply to keep herself from collapsing with exhaustion. In her stubbornness, she insisted on going prospecting, but Marrok quickly put a stop to it when Jannali fainted in the middle of Dianan's city square, leaving him to carry her back to the palace.

Secretive as always, they still slept together on occasion, but even then, they would often be forced to stop due to the pain in Jannali's back. Alone in the darkness of her room, he fell asleep to the sound of Jannali's angry sobs. She thought that it would be like Channary: easy and over before she knew it. However, this second pregnancy proved to be an obstacle unlike anything she had ever faced. Marrok regretted ever suggesting the idea, as much as he felt himself growing more and more attached to the thought of his unborn child.

Cynthia Delacourt's death also didn't help matters. As her only child, Jannali was expected to take charge of her funeral and deal with the company and estate. The entire family was thrown into despair after the aged woman's body was discovered one morning, slumped over her desk—Cynthia had found her end at the bottom of a glass, the contents of which had spilled to the floor and congealed into a sticky mess. The Delacourts' lumber plant, Jannali decided, would go to her eldest cousin, but she chose to keep the bulk of her inheritance in money and finery to herself. Much of Cynthia's vast jewel collection was committed to the royal treasury. A few of them, though, Marrok quietly slipped away in his room with the intention of keeping them for the baby. Among these was a precious silver pendant with a butterfly charm carved from a shard of amethyst.

With the stress of her pregnancy and her mother's passing, Jannali chose to retire herself to her chambers throughout the day with her ladies-in-waiting, playing cards and faking comraderie. She was ever-so-fond of complaining, but Marrok didn't have that privilege—life flowed on without pause for the king and he resigned himself to the kingdom's work as his wife's belly grew. So he decided that he would pick, pick, pick at the mountain of demands that plagued his every waking moment, at least giving himself the illusion of rest.

"So that, My King, is why I believe that we should consider re-establishing trade with Earth. The outer sectors would greatly benefit from the income of food and other resources; that way, with a content populace, rebellion would be out of the question," said Thaumaturge Mavelin, a tall woman with hair so big that it must've been full of secrets.

At last, she had finished her long discourse on the unruly spat that had broken out in one of the agricultural sectors. She was prattling on for nothing; everyone knew that Luna was in an unfortunate economic position. Marrok kept her around solely for the distraction she provided from his mound of paperwork. Updating archaic policies and arranging a full-earth gala for the court sapped his energy faster than he could say 'exhausting'.

"It is Earth that has cut off all links with us," Marrok drawled, picking up his fork from the edge of his desk. In the king's warm study, the smell of roasted meat and grilled asparagus could've made anyone hungry—if Mavelin was, she didn't show it. He _picked picked picked_  at his plate like a pigeon, without any desire to eat. Marrok didn't even remember why he had ordered the divine stuffed duck to his desk. In all honesty, he didn't have much appetite for anything these days.

"A mistake on their part and a burden on ours," the thaumaturge continued. "I do believe that several members of court have also been concerning themselves with this issue; I'm sure that they'll be quick to discuss their solutions with you." She put a hand to her chest. "You didn't hear it from me."

"Yes, thank you. That will be all." The king waved a hand.

The thaumaturge glanced down at her pinging port. By then, Marrok's gaze had shifted to the budget of the court's next meeting, the food that would have to be catered, the social that would be held afterwards...

"And Your Majesty?"

He glanced up at Mavelin, who had not moved from her stone-cold position. Marrok raised an eyebrow, his way of saying  _carry on_.

"Lord James Abrasax has requested a private audience with you. Should I let him in or would you prefer that I arrange a later appointment—"

The thaumaturge had his attention at once and Marrok sat speechless; caught off guard, he managed to clear his throat. Of all the times for James to finally show up out of nowhere... "No, I would like to speak with him now. Thank you again for your time, Thaumaturge Mavelin."

The thaumaturge bowed and escorted James into the room. The lord threw her a thankless smile and came to stand before his former best friend, all pomp and circumstance. "Your Majesty." James knelt in utmost respect, and Marrok couldn't help the irritation that crept down his spine. James never showed such courtesy in earnest; it was always followed by a snicker behind his back.

"To what to I owe the pleasure of your company, Lord Abrasax?"

"I wanted to congratulate both you and Her Majesty on her pregnancy. May we soon celebrate the birth of a child of Luna."

Marrok forced a pleasant smile. "Thank you. Is that all?"

It was not, of course. James always had something to say. "I also wished to bid you goodbye."

The formality of James' words made Marrok uneasy before, but now, he was horrified to find that he didn't recognize him. Even his appearance had changed dramatically; his black hair cut at a respectable length, his silk shirt buttoned up properly, his eyes no longer sparkling with mischief. He didn't have a glass of whiskey in hand, either. "Goodbye?" The king echoed, gripping the armrest of his chair.

"I'm to be married next month," said James, holding his arms behind his back, "as I'm sure you're aware, and I'll be moving to Dianan with my wife to help her run the pharmaceuticals industry."

Marrok had no idea that James was engaged. No one spoke of it at court, and he hadn't seen Lord Abrasax in person since his coronation. "I see. Will it be a big wedding?"

James shook his head. "Naila wants to keep it small and low-key. Close family only."

 _And you're not invited._  The words never left his mouth—no one would be foolish enough to say that to their monarch's face—but it was heavily implied, and they both knew it. Marrok was angry, of course, but he couldn't help himself from wondering why. Why did James hate him? What had he done to cause such a rift between them? Marrok wanted to ask, to beg, but his pride and denial kept him chained to his seat. Why was he the one that had to reduce himself to pleas? He didn't push James away. It was all him. And if he really wanted to keep their friendship, he would've apologized and taken Marrok out for a drink and everything would once again be merry.

"I wish you all the best," Marrok said, folding his hands in his lap. "You will be greatly missed at court."

James let out a snort, and for a moment, the king could see the remnants of his precocious playmate beneath the mask of refined grace. James was quick to hide it beneath a grim smile. "Of course, Your Majesty."

Silence. Marrok felt like he would need a knife to cut the tension.

"Well, that's all I wanted to say." James turned on his heel, slowly, deliberately, as if he waited for some sort of protest from Marrok. But when the king said nothing, he quietly left the room as empty and warm as it had been prior to his arrival. It took all of Marrok's strength to keep himself from bursting through the door and flinging himself in James' arms. It was over. He had known this for years; yet, he only then began to accept it. Friends will come, and friends will go.

But family lasts forever. He constantly reminded himself of this as he abandoned his work in favor of accompanying Jannali to the hospital ward to find out the sex of their child. He ignored the photograph that James had discreetly slipped on across his desk before he left. A picture of the two of them at eight years old, wearing paper hats and floating paper boats across the lake. Marrok's hair had been an explosion of curls and he was missing two teeth from his wide grin.

Yes, life flows on—so sublime...but only if one stops and takes the time.

* * *

 

They came to learn that they were having another little girl.

The news didn't seem the least bit perturbing to the queen, even though she had been so eager to have this child before. Marrok told himself that it was just the difficult pregnancy that was wearing down on her, and that she'd soon come to be as excited as he was. He saw it was a chance to redeem himself, to raise this new princess with love and devotion. To be finally seen as a worthy father.

He thought he was already doing well, if the fear he felt for his daughter was any indication. Marrok still hadn't forgotten what Jannali had said when she was pregnant with Channary— _how I'd like to kill a baby,_  she whispered. It was a thought that chilled him to the core. Surely she didn't mean her  _own_  baby. Where was the fun in killing such a defenceless creature? Babies weren't prospects. They never have been.

Besides, he decided, even if Jannali wanted to have her as a prospect, Marrok refused to have any harm come to his new daughter. He took to calling her  _sweetling_  and even began to write out a list of possible names. The child's nursery was originally planned to be built right across from her sister's, but Marrok ordered that it be set up right beside his own chambers instead. It would be connected to the far room by a pretty white door.

Jannali didn't seem pleased by these developments. He was made aware of this by her refusing to let him sleep in her bed, ordering him back to his rooms every evening. She said that she needed time to relax and that the constant activity around the nursery was giving her migraines. In retaliation, the king settled on a name and began commissioning clothes and toys for the coming baby. This is how he found himself touring around Artemisia's various shopping districts, motivated in part by his desire to spoil his daughter rotten, but also just to get away from his nagging wife and hounding court.

Accompanied by a small entourage of three guards, the king saved AR-4 for last. It was Aisha's favourite place to hang around with her ladies, and there were a certain number of shops that she would ramble endlessly about. The entire place was  _chic_  and well-decorated, screaming of riches and luxury. Money certainly talked here. It all seemed so lively in comparison to the glum air of his palace, and Marrok found himself smiling in spite of his anxiety. His guards stayed a good metre behind him, allowing the king to pass through the bustling crowds without too much notice. The shop he had in mind was right around the corner, a bright place painted in white and beaming with cheer. His mother had been quite fond of this seamstress' work.

He ordered his guard to remain outside. They complied,  _of course they did_ , and Marrok released his white glamour, replacing it once again with that of the blonde boy. He nearly felt like a teenager again.

"Oh, hello!" A pretty girl—the owner, he presumed—waved at him from behind the front desk. "May I help you find anything specific?"

He glanced at the display behind her head. It showed off fabrics embossed with initials and obviously personalized designs.

"I was wondering," Marrok wringed his hands, "if you, perhaps...embroidered blankets?"

* * *

 

"His Majesty had gone out again, My Queen, but I promise that I will notify you right away of his return."

Jannali's hands balled into fists at her sides. It was the third time that week—she was really beginning to tire of her husband's on-and-off again absences. "Thank you, Serenity," she seethed. The queen then left her lady-in-waiting to attend to Channary, who was left alone with her governess' long-awaited retirement. In the rush to find a replacement, Serenity saw to it that Channary was kept out of trouble—at least, as out of trouble as the tyrant princess could be.

Jannali found herself wandering down the halls to her husband's rooms, although her walk was now something more of a waddle. Despite all the pain she caused her, at least the child in her belly didn't keep her up at night with her constant wriggling. Come to think of it, she had only kicked maybe ten times or so in the six months of pregnancy.

To Jannali's relief, the nursery's construction had been completed two days before, and she was able to wander about Marrok's bedroom in peace. She knew that he had been going out and buying things for the baby, and at first, she thought that he was simply going along with the charade, although it was odd that he was doing all of this himself. Someone else had been sent out to assemble a wardrobe for Channary. And the fact that he had the nursery adjoined to his room made her worry greatly. She refused to let it get to her, though. Marrok's strange obsession with this child was all part of the show. There was no reason for her concern.

She snooped about the shelves and drawers that lined nearly every single wall of the main bedroom. Nothing was really out of place—various trinkets, immaculately folded clothes, books, trinkets from when the king was younger; Jannali went over to the nursery next, unsatisfied with her search. The child would certainly be comfortable in there—instead of marble floors, there was lush white carpet covering the ground and delicate purple sheers covered the drooping windows. A pretty display of stuffed toys and porcelain dolls adorned the far wall. In the corner sat a rocking chair, nice and close to the cradle. The thing seemed a bit excessive, with a frilly white mattress and satin canopy hung from the ceiling.

She sneaked around the furniture. In the closet was a collection of tiny dresses, bodysuits and nightgowns—the socks were so small that Jannali could barely slip one over two of her fingers. All of these things had the look of having been chosen with care. Tucked away in one of the drawers was a white box, tied with pale pink ribbon. Jannali picked it up and narrowed her eyes. She pulled out a baby blanket, made of violet silk. It had stencils of graceful butterflies embroidered skillfully from the hem. In the left corner, a name had been sewn with purple thread—the cursive was elegant so that the loops of the letters intertwined perfectly with a butterfly's wings. They spelled out L-E-V-A-N-A.

Jannali hadn't expected Marrok to name the child himself. Nor had she ever expected him to have this soft blanket made. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen—just from the feel of the fabric, she could tell that it was worth a fortune. She wondered, irritated, why Marrok had kept this a secret from her. They told each other everything. She had shared her body, her heart, and her every desire with him. She would expect that he did the same.

And it was all pointless, anyway. The child would not live to see her first birthday—she would perish under a knife or poison to fulfill Jannali's deepest, most intimate fantasy. Marrok knew this, surely. But as the weeks passed, as Jannali confronted him about the secret that he had kept from her, doubt and concern and began to brew within her along with the morning sickness. Fear that she would not be able to finally have what she wanted. And dread that Marrok's heart may have already been taken by the silent presence in her womb.

But Jannali reassured herself that whatever Marrok felt was insignificant. He may have been the king, but she was the one in charge, and he would cave, like always. She would never let a man take what was rightfully hers.

The small bones of her newborn child.


	14. Mirth And Play

Levana was supposed to have been born in February, just in time for the full earth. But in mid-December, one afternoon, Jannali was caught off-guard by sudden waves of pain in her belly, like a knife slicing through her tender flesh. It had nearly knocked her out of her seat, which resulted in splashes of scalding tea landing on her skin and nightgown. Marrok was quick to call for a nurse, and the queen was carted off on a hovering gurney to the hospital where she would be declared into labor. The entirety of the palace was thrown off guard by this news; Her Majesty wasn't due for another two months, and yet, she found herself blinded by the pain that flared in her middle. She didn't remember it being that bad with Channary.

The doctors had feared this. Jannali's pregnancy had been unstable from the start and anything could have caused a complication, or worse, a miscarriage. All they could do was hope that an early birth would not result in an impaired child or a deceased queen.

She had never been in so much pain, nor had she ever been so afraid. It felt like something burrowing through her body, trying to force its way out. Hours passed, but the doctors' panicked muttering told her that there had been no progress, that she wasn't dilated enough, that they would have to put her under. She had no chance to protest—it was either surgery or death. She was pulled through the muddy waters of anesthesia as they cut her open, sticking a scalpel into her belly,  _mutilating her._ All to free the writhing creature that had held her mother down for the short seven months that she spent within her. Jannali obviously hadn't met Levana at her birth, but by the nurses' mouthes she learned that it was a mercy she didn't have to see the poor thing, small and wretched as she was.

Instead, she slept like the dead through the night, and it wasn't until the next afternoon that the anesthesia wore off. Through the haze of unconsciousness, the room where she had been put to rest came into view agonizingly slowly. Jannali forced her sticky eyelids open. The pristine white made her regret her decision and she turned her flickering gaze to her hand, to the small needle poking out of her skin. Attached to it was a cable that lead to the heart monitor, which bleeped along steadily with every rise of her chest.

Her other hand began to make its way down her torso, memories of the birth flooding back into her mind like a tidal wave. Her cries, the doctors' panic, Marrok's look of pure terror as she was whisked away to the hospital ward. That look had frozen her to the core—because for the first time in her life, she felt fear, true fear, leeching through her blood as they put her down on a pristine bed. She thought that she would die. And she couldn't. Not yet. There was still so much to be done, so much to live for—

Jannali let out a whimper as she pressed down on her flat middle, where she knew a deep suture wound hid beneath a roll of bandage. There wasn't anything to be afraid of now. It was out of her.

She was snapped out of her self-induced pain by the door's sudden opening. It slid back to reveal a tall nurse pacing—quite slowly, it seemed—to Jannali's bedside. The door shut behind him. The queen, for her part, had not requested any medical attention; despite her injuries and drowsiness, she was tempted to send him away with a good slap.

But the nurse's image dissipated and Jannali was met with her husband's face as he came to kneel beside her. He looked defeated; he had dark shadows under his eyes and his hair was unkempt, the way Jannali liked it. He took her hand in his and kissed it, looking up at her with his puppy dog gaze. "Are you alright?" Marrok whispered, his voice hoarse.

Jannali beckoned him forward. He complied, and with a flush to her cheeks, Jannali brought his head down and pressed his lips to hers. "I'll heal soon," she promised. Smiling, she let him go and he sat by her on the mattress. "And then, we'll have plenty of time to ourselves."

The king's face didn't brighten in the slightest, even with Jannali's kisses. "The doctor says she'll live..." He brought their intertwined hands to his forehead. "But she's so...she's so small, Jannali. It's not right."

"What does it matter? She'll live, as you said. We'll be able to deal with her once she can leave the hospital."

Marrok pulled away slightly, as if repulsed by the callousness of her statement. "What do you—"

"She'll need to stay here for a while, won't she?" Jannali barked. "If she's that premature."

"Yes. They tell me it'll be at least three weeks until they can take her out of intensive care."

The queen let out a sigh. "Why are you so concerned?"

"She's our  _daughter_ , Jannali. She could have  _died._ " His frown deepened. "She still might. And you had to get operated on..." Jannali had never seen her husband so exhausted, or so lost. Marrok buried his head in his hands. "I haven't slept in two days, and I'm not even the one at risk. How are you not sick with worry?"

Jannali smiled. "Don't be so silly; it will take more than a c-section to claim me," she tittered, putting a hand on his cheek. "Everything will be alright."

They kissed again, just in time for another nurse to come wandering with a new bag for the IV drip. His cheeks burning, Marrok stood immediately and slipped into his disguise before she could recognize him. The nurse herself seemed irritated at the intruder whom she had caught kissing her bedridden queen. "Are you here to administer Her Majesty's painkillers?"

Marrok gulped. "I was...I was just finishing with that. I'll be getting out of your way in a moment."

The nurse's glare shot daggers at his back as he pretended to retrieve empty needles and medication bottles; he knew that in her bed, Jannali would be grinning like an idiot. She had always found it hilarious when people would admonish their king unknowingly for their shameless displays of affection. After such a painful and scarring experience, it was her only comedy for the day.

"Forgive me, My Queen, but should I have Dr. Elliot dismiss him? He seems to be bothering you." The nurse put a finger to her lips. "Come to think of it, I've never seen him before."

"He's new," Jannali snapped, "and he's harmless. You needn't worry about something so trivial. Nor should you burden your queen in such a trying time."

The nurse's hard glare softened and she bowed apologetically. "You are absolutely right, My Queen. It is not my place." She came around and removed the needle from Jannali's wrist. The queen cringed slightly as a fresh one was slipped back under her skin. "Does that feel better?"

Jannali's head spun slightly as she was pumped with drugs, and her lips spread into a dopey grin. "Oh, yes. Thank you," she giggled.

* * *

 

By the next week, with several trips to a healing therapist, Jannali had recovered enough that she could limp through the halls when laying down proved to be too confining. It wasn't until then that Jannali requested to see her baby, as sitting around on a gurney was embarrassing beyond words and Jannali refused to have someone push her around. Instead, she had Dr. Elliot and a couple medical assistants follow close behind her as she was guided to the intensive care unit, watching closely should the queen collapse.

"You may view her in here," said Elliot, after a couple more turns down the hallway. They walked in through the sliding door into a crisp white room. "We will be waiting out here and the monitor will be on for the entirety of your visit. Should you need anything at all, someone will be in to assist you immediately, My Queen."

Jannali nodded and leaned against the wall. She was left alone in the room, lulled into a strange sense of peace by the constant thrum of a heart monitor and the running machines. There were no windows and the walls screamed of sterility and lifelessness. A long table was set with five immaculate life-support tanks. Only the last one was occupied; in it, the queen could see the little princess asleep, wrapped in the soft blanket that Marrok had commissioned for her.

It was quite out of place amongst the tubes and monitors that surrounded the tank, and Jannali felt an odd bout of sadness. Marrok hadn't been exaggerating Levana's size; she was barely as big as a watermelon and her skin held a crimson flush that still hadn't faded after a week. Like a newborn kitten, her eyes had not yet opened. She couldn't drink or breathe on her own, therefore making her have tubes run down her throat and through her nose. Marrok had told her that Levana hardly ever cried, not because she didn't have reason to, but because her chest wasn't yet strong enough to hold that much air. She was a curled up little frog that had made the mistake of leaving the pond.

Jannali glanced at the bleeping heart monitor, at the pumps that filled Levana's lungs and kept her heartbeat steady. How easy it would be. Just pull the plug and watch the baby writhe until she fell limp and died. But, she told herself, it would be  _too_  easy. Too fast. She wanted to take her time, to cut Levana up and see her insides. Jannali had read somewhere that babies had more bones than adults, and she wanted to see hands-on if this was true. No, there was no fun in ending her painlessly.

"Hello, sweetling," Jannali sighed against the glass. She didn't care much for Marrok's pet name, but she liked the way it could be used to mock, like she would to a prospect. "Do you know who I am?"

The baby continued her labored breathing without interruption—not even a stir.

Jannali smiled. "I'm your mommy. And the man who gave you that blanket is your daddy."

She didn't tell Levana anything about her desire to dissect her, for she knew she was being recorded. It was the only compromise the doctors gave her; she could be alone in the room if she agreed to be monitored on camera. They didn't want their sickly queen to suffer hemorrhages and be without immediate help. Jannali continued to gaze at her newborn daughter, dreaming of all the things she could do, how she was there  _at last—_

Her stare caught on the blanket, and the dread returned with its bitter force. She only then understood that Marrok truly meant it when he said he was worried sick. He truly...he truly loved the girl. He had given her a name, a nursery in his own chambers, his time, his attention. Fury raged in her middle where that damned child should've been. It all swam through her head in a blur of incoherency—the endless nights of Marrok's embrace, touching her belly, loving words whispered into the air that Jannali now realized had not all been for her, but also for the little Princess Levana.

She took a deep, calming breath.  _It didn't matter what Marrok thought._  His love was no match for Jannali's bloodlust. The queen stepped away, her predatory stare still fixed on the sleeping child.

Her pretty little prospect.

 

 

 


	15. Who Shall Me Let

She stood naked in front of her mirror, alone in the silence of her chambers. All was still, nearly frighteningly so, but Jannali paid no mind to her surroundings; only her reflection was what held her attention. Over and over, she ran her hand over the scar on her middle, right below her belly button. It was an ugly thing, of course, having barely healed since Levana was cut out of her. Long, deep, crimson, scabbed over—it marred the rest of the queen's flawless skin. It was not for this reason that she hated it, though. Jannali liked ugly things; she always had, and she sometimes wished that she wasn't given such a beautiful face. The court's manic obsession with beauty was both confusing and stupid to her. Grotesqueness was just so much more... _interesting_.

She pinched at the faint traces of fat that clung onto her belly and hips. She had lost most of her baby weight during her recovery from the surgery, but a little still remained, and would until Jannali went out and burned it off. It wouldn't be hard; she was still young, barely twenty-four, and she promised herself that after a couple outings, she would be as lithe as she was just a year ago.

Her reflection stared back at her with a hollow expression. With a sigh, she was suddenly tired. The baby had been brought back from the hospital all but a week ago, and every night she woke up her parents with her high-pitched wails, demanding food and other nonsense. Levana didn't yet have a wet nurse, because Marrok still foolishly insisted that they could care for her at night themselves. It was obviously exhausting the both of them, yet the king refused to listen to Jannali's complaints. His insolence beckoned her fury and it was very well ready to blow. If Marrok noticed this, it did nothing to tame him into submission. He made it very clear that he had every intention of letting Levana live.

The baby began to bawl again, for what seemed like the hundredth time that morning, from somewhere down the hallway. Jannali hissed and hastily slipped back into her gown, all as she called up her regal glamour. The cries came from Channary's playroom, where the queen suggested that Levana's nanny take her for the day. As she stalked closer, Jannali could hear the nanny admonishing Channary for something or other.

"What seems to be the matter, Mila?" Jannali snapped as she entered the room with a flourish.

Channary stomped back from the rocking chair where the nanny sat. Angry, she pointed a finger at her bawling sister, who was squirming in Mila's arms, red-faced and hysterical. "She yelled at me because I used my glamour on Levana," she shouted. "I just wanted to make her stop crying!"

"Princess, she began crying  _because_  you were manipulating her," said Mila, exasperated. "It's the fifth time today that I've told you to leave Her Highness alone."

"But—"

"Channary, give me your netscreen."

The princess turned to Jannali, her eyes wide. "Why?"

"I'm confiscating it until you learn to listen to directions; this is unacceptable behaviour and I will not have you disobey Mila or I." Jannali held out a hand. " _Give it to me._ "

Channary let out a whine and stomped her foot. "No! It's not fair!"

"There are plenty of things in life that aren't fair." Jannali brushed past her daughter and picked up the netscreen herself. "There will be no more games today. Find something else to do."

" _Mother!_ " Channary wailed, along with the baby that had not quieted once. "Please, don't! I won't do it again!"

"I don't believe you," said Jannali. "You also say that you'll do the assignments that Thaumaturge Kunis gives you, and yet he's still telling me that you don't know how to spell  _'refrigerator'_. It's what you get for lying; there is no reason for me to trust you."

" _I hate you!_ " Channary cried.

The queen smiled. _Oh, I hate you too._  Jannali barely managed to bite back the words. Glancing at Mila, who tried in vain to appease Levana, she let out a sigh. "Mila, take this and don't let her have it. Give Levana to me—I'll calm her down."

Mila dipped her head, grateful. Now she would only have one screaming child to deal with. Jannali was handed the baby, bundled in her blanket, and she gave the netscreen to the nanny. "I'm so sorry for this inconvenience, Your Majesty. I promise it won't happen—"

"It's my fault for charging you with both of them at the same time," the queen interrupted. "I swear, Channary's more childish than she is."

"I am not!" Channary shrieked, gripping one of her dolls so hard that it seemed like the head would pop right off.

"This is why you don't have many friends, darling," Jannali said mockingly. "You are much too loud and much too  _mean_."

"I have friends!" The princess huffed. "You're the one who doesn't. That's why you're always alone. Why people say that Father doesn't love you."

Mila stood back, absolutely horrified at the exchange. Instead of getting angry, though, like was expected, Jannali simply laughed and held Levana closer to her chest. The baby had quieted somewhat, but she still whimpered annoyingly. "I don't love your Father either. He has his friends, and I have mine." She laughed again. "They just don't live around here. Now, Channary, I suggest that you start learning to think about what you say." The queen winked. "Becaause while I may find your insolence funny, others will not, and it will be a very bad day for you when they decide that they've had enough of your rudeness."

Channary blinked. "What's _insolence_?"

Jannali simply shook her head. "Have a good afternoon, Mila. Be sure she stays out of trouble." The queen didn't stay to hear the nanny's response. After a short trip down the hallway, she once again found herself in her empty chambers, with the baby in her arms. The rooms weren't empty of furniture, of course, but rather of personality and charm. They were obviously the queen's suites, full of priceless glass adornments and paintings from Luna's earliest days.

While the rooms themselves were as impersonal as anyone could imagine, all of Jannali's personal effects were hidden in a small basement of sorts that lay under the floor, accessible only by a locked hatch that she had covered with a rug. There were several rooms in the palace that had those bunkers of sorts, and Marrok told her it was for storage back when the palace was first being built. The hatch was clear and blended in well with the tiled floor, so not many people were still aware of its existence. It was there that she kept her weapons and various poisons, accumulated over the years of tinkering in the labs with her tutors. She also hid many parts of her victims, like skulls and fingers and eyes, among other things. She liked to keep collections.

But the outside was as blank and lifeless as Jannali's persona, and no one ever suspected a thing. She sank down on her divan and pulled a thick fleece blanket around her shoulders. Levana was still fussy, and she showed this by pulling at Jannali's hair with her tiny fists. The queen suspected that she was hungry, and although she could've called for a maid to bring her a warm bottle, she didn't feel going through the hassle of coaxing Levana to eat. It was always an ordeal; Jannali thought that Levana simply didn't like formula. Instead, she glanced around to be absolutely sure that she was alone, before lowering the neckline of her gown. Madame Etiquette would've had a heart attack had she known what Jannali was doing; apparently, feeding the child herself would be reckless as a woman in her position. Jannali resolved to have the old coot fired.

It took a few seconds for Levana to stop whimpering and realize what her mother was showing her. Although she had never been fed by Jannali once, she seemed to act by instinct and latched onto the queen's breast. After a moment, she was completely silent as she suckled merrily. Jannali smiled, securing the baby's head with her fingers. "That's much better than the icky formula, isn't it?"

The infant continued to gnash happily at her mother's breast. As she sat there, in warmth and comfort, Jannali was surprised at the subtle pleasure she took in doing something so...maternal. Levana was only a month old—vulnerable, malleable...she could become anything, if Jannali let her live. And suddenly, like a blind man seeing the sun for the first time, it dawned on her. This baby could grow up to be just like her, if Jannali raised her right. After all, the child was born of the two greatest killers Luna had ever known. She watched Levana suckle in her hunger, and she knew what she would do. Her anger dripped away, with the sands of time, and she became enamoured with the idea of living on through her youngest daughter. By then, Channary was too old to groom properly. It had to be Levana.

Jannali closed her eyes and laid her head down on a pillow. Marrok was right. It would be a waste to kill the girl. All remnants of the obsession that had plagued her for years vanished, replaced by the promise of something greater, and infinitely more entertaining. Instead of slaughtering the baby, Jannali began to fantasize about teaching Levana the proper ways to cut, to stalk, to disembowel. She would bring her along on hunts and they would kill together, the three of them. A happy little family.

And Marrok couldn't possibly oppose. She would leave his beloved little girl alive. It was an unfortunate truth, but Jannali knew that someday she and her husband would die. When that happened, Levana would carry on their gruesome hobby and teach the art of murder to her children, and so on, and so on. There would always be someone to replace Ugly J.

Levana let go of the queen's nipple with a faint  _pop_. Sated, she began to look around herself with big eyes and a wonderstruck expression. Although still a little underdeveloped, she was a lot more appealing to look at now that her eyes were open, compared to when she was born. Again, Jannali was slightly disappointed to see that Levana was nearly a clone of her, with thin brown hair and the same eyes, like molten tar. Hopefully she would have some of her father in her, when she was older.

"Oh, you poor little girl," Jannali cooed, kissing the crown of her head. "Your sister doesn't like you very much, does she?" The queen rocked her back and forth, like a ship on the sea. "It doesn't matter. I don't care about Channary; she belongs to the state. But you, my little Levana..." she kissed the baby again, "shall be  _mine_."


	16. For Good Or Ill

"Now, should I read you a story?" Marrok asked, ruffling Levana's thin hair.

Naturally, the baby didn't answer. She instead kept on looking around herself, as much as she could with her limited control over her neck. Jannali, her hair falling around her shoulders and her cheeks flushed, finished removing the pounds of jewellery that had held her down all day. She sighed, liberated. "Why are you still bothering? She doesn't care about stories."

"I want to read to her," Marrok shrugged.

"She's a baby. She doesn't get it."

The king stood and placed the storybook on the white shelf. "Whatever you say, dear."

"What's wrong with you? Your pouting is really getting annoying," Jannali sneered. After a moment, she plopped herself down in the rocking chair and folded her hands in her lap. "What did I do this time?"

Marrok shot her a glance. "No. It's...it's nothing. I had a long day at court."

"I really hate it when you lie. Not only is it insulting, but you're horribly bad at it." She scrunched her nose. "You need to work on that."

This was enough to drive him forward out of the nursery, where he had previously forced himself to stand and endure Jannali's silent threats. He really had no energy to fend her off. His heart hammering and his palms sweating, he poured himself a glass of whiskey and slowly sipped it down.

"Are you listening to me?"

Marrok gulped. "Of course I am. I always listen to you."

"I won't kill her."

Marrok froze in his tracks; trembling, he placed his glass back on the glass coffee table.

Jannali stood, hunching her shoulders bashfully. "I promise I won't. I won't lay a finger on her."

The king forced down the hint of bile that rose in his throat. All his fears from the past few months were confirmed, all at once. So she had been planning to slaughter the child. "That's...that's a relief."

"I know that you're afraid of me, of what I told you before." Jannali took a step closer to the cradle, where the princess stared out and strained to catch a glimpse of her parents. He tried to stamp it down, but Marrok couldn't help the feeling of dread that crept up through his throat. "That's usually why you act like a snivelling brat."

He brushed off the insult, and in response, he made a face. Jannali smiled and bent down into the cradle, lifting Levana into her arms. Swaddled in her blanket, the princess squirmed and let out a loud croon. Jannali sank back down in the rocking chair and began to tip back and forth. "You don't need to worry anymore. " Jannali held onto one of Levana's little hands. "Why would I have ever wanted to kill you, baby girl?"

Levana cooed again. Marrok, apprehensive, came to stand beside her. "What made you change your mind?"

Jannali cocked her head. "She's my daughter—she has as much potential as I once did. She'll be just like me. Don't you agree?"

"You...you want her to be like you?" Marrok's dread began to fade and the ever-familiar excitement crept back into his veins. His heart continued to shudder. Of all the things he wanted to teach his daughter, the fine art of killing people hadn't occurred to him as an option.

But it...it made sense.

As he pondered the idea, Marrok felt his heart swell. From where she sat in the chair, Jannali smiled and gently rubbed her nose against Levana's. There was a look of tender devotion in her eye, instead of the predatorial stare that she gave to all her prospects. And he understood why. Of course Jannali would be excited by this. She would be kept plenty busy, raising a little murderer. Driven by the need to experiment, Levana was to Jannali what an Earthen was to a budding Lunar child learning to hone in their gift.

As for him, Marrok relished in the thought of having something to share with his daughter. He could teach her, be proud of her, be involved in her life. She would recognize him when he talked to her and she would want to spend time with him.

"Don't you agree?" Jannali repeated, nuzzling the back of Levana's neck.

"Absolutely." Marrok held out his arms, and Jannali handed over the baby. Levana continued to babble and grabbed onto his fingers. "Did you hear that, Sweetling? Your mother and I will teach you how to prospect."

Jannali wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing his cheek. Relief settled into every part of his body. He had been prepared to fight her, to even kill her if the need arose. He knew how far she would have gone to get what she wanted. Marrok felt guilty about it now. He should've known that Jannali would come around. He knew her like the back of his hand—always quick to see what's most advantageous. It was one of the many things he admired in her.

No, not admired. _Loved._

He had known it for so long, that he loved her. It had to be love. How else could he explain his desire for her? He couldn't stand to be away from her for any longer than a day. He would go to any lengths to defend her, to please her. His queen, the mother of his child. Jannali would've laughed at him in her cruel mockery if she had ever heard him say it; Marrok knew that she wouldn't understand. The only time that it would ever slip past his lips was when he was lost in her heat, in the touch of her skin, when he lost all rational thought. And it would always be promptly forgotten the next day.

Marrok smiled and held Levana against his chest, so that she could look over his shoulder. Rocking her back and forth, he gently tapped her back. In response, Levana whined and grabbed a fistful of Marrok's red hair. "I think it's time to go to bed, Sweetling. Don't you?"Asked the king, pulling her away from his neck.

Levana opened her mouth to cry again, but Jannali was quick to silence her with her pacifier. The princess squirmed and closed her eyes, sucking rhythmically on the soother. It didn't take long for her to drift off to sleep. Marrok laid her back down in the crib on her stomach; her blanket was also draped over her tiny body.

"Thank you," he sighed, pulling out the sheers surrounding the cradle. They billowed closed like violet clouds.

Jannali held her hands to her chest. "I know how much she means to you, and...you should know that I love her too."

She almost sounded sincere. Marrok shook his head and pulled her into his arms. They kissed, passionately, tenderly, falling onto their bed in a tangle of limbs. By the time they were done, it was pitch black outside, and the scurry of noise from the frantic servants could no longer be heard in the halls. Marrok closed the many curtains and Jannali turned the lights down low. It was nearly haunting. Hand in hand, they settled in the nursery and watched the tiny princess sleep in her crib—after a moment, they broke the silence and began to talk themselves drunk with all the possibilities of Levana.

They began to do this every night, when Jannali allowed herself to sleep with her husband, not held down by their charade (always with the charade). She was now a mistress named Montmorency, and she was the newest darling of the court. Always smiling, ever charming, and an essentially sexual creature. Such a caricature was nothing new to the king, but he always looked forward to when they were alone and he could once again be with Jannali. There, they spoke not of the king's grandeur and gossip of court, but of all the things they would teach their little girl.

* * *

The nanny's look of surprise, when he walked into Channary's rooms, amused Marrok. He knew it was an odd sight, the king taking time out of his day to visit his daughter. Jannali—or rather, Montmorency—was off gallivanting with the court ladies, so Marrok committed to checking up on Channary's academic progress. He was disappointed to see that she still couldn't remember the names of all the city-states.

"Tell me something about _Elathia_ ," said the king. "Where Sybil lives."

"I don't know who that _is_ ," Channary whined. On her chair, she seemed like a rag doll with the way she swung her legs.

"You've met her several times before. She and her mother come to the palace sometimes, remember?"

The crown princess huffed. "I don't _care_! Can I go?"

"If you don't even know anything about our cities, how do you think you can be a good queen to our people, dear?" Marrok pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I don't even want to be queen. It's really boring."

Marrok forced a smile and leaned back in his seat. "Then perhaps Levana can become queen, when she's older. You can just stay a princess your whole life and waste your time playing."

Channary's face reddened, and he could tell she was on the verge of a tantrum. " _No!_ Levana would be a terrible queen!" The princess kicked her chair again. "All she does is cry and sleep. And she's stupid."

"Not any more stupid than you are, dear." The words slipped out before Marrok could bite them back. He instantly regretted them, especially when Channary let out a cry of rage.

" _I'm not stupid!_ I just don't _care_ about your—"

" _That's enough_ ," Marrok snarled. Channary sobbed and wiped her eyes.

"I'm not stupid," she whined again.

"No, you're not. You're just lazy." The king grabbed a textbook off the princess' desk and flipped through it. "Now, tell me again; what do you know about Elathia? You've been there. This shouldn't be hard."

"I don't care," Channary repeated. "I don't know."

Marrok took in a deep breath. It was about time to give up. Channary had no desire to cooperate, and negotiating with her was like speaking sign language through a megaphone—no effect whatsoever. "What have you been doing lately? Your mother says you've been quite disruptive."

"Mother yelled at me the other day." Channary turned her head. "I wasn't listening to Mila because Mila isn't the boss of me. I can play with Levana if I want to."

"If you're playing _nicely_ , surely Mila wouldn't have to—"

" _It's wrong to glamour her, Channary! She's just a baby! You could really hurt her!_ "The princess said in a nasal voice. She crossed her arms over her chest. "That's what she said. She _always_ ruins my fun."

Marrok sat in silence for a moment, letting his rage build and thrum in his ears. "You were _glamouring_ your sister?"

"Are you going to yell at me too?" Channary pouted.

It quickly turned into a yelp, though, as Marrok caught her hand and forced her to stand. Channary began to whimper, but the king drowned it out with his own shouts. "You are _NEVER_ to do that again, do I make myself clear? _NEVER_!" Marrok roared, squeezing her thin arm. If he had tightened his grip any more, he would've broken it.

Channary screamed, the sound of nails on a chalkboard. She wasn't used to being so roughly handled. "LET GO OF ME!"

For a split second, Marrok thought that one of the guards would burst in and see why the princess was screaming, but when they didn't, he hit Channary upside the head to get her to shut up. This didn't work, of course, and she only cried louder. But everyone knew the king was in there, and they wouldn't dare interrupt. "You know very well that you do not do that to babies." Marrok got down on his knees to Channary's level. He forced her to look at him. "It hurts their brains. It could change the way they grow up. I will not have you doing that to Levana."

Channary sniffed. "Who even _cares_ about Levana?"

"Your mother and I both do."

"So you care about a stupid baby, but you don't care about me?"

Marrok smiled. "Of course we do. Everyone cares about you," he lied.

"You always spend time with her."

"And? Do you want me to spend time with _you_?"

"No." Channary moved away from him and wiped her nose in the most unladylike manner. "You're mean. I'd rather spend time with _Mila_ ," she spat, as if this was supposed to be an insult.

"Well. Don't complain that we never spend time with you, then."

Channary began to scurry away, but Marrok grabbed onto her sleeve. "I want to go play, Father."

"You know I'm serious, Channary. If you hurt Levana again, you're in for a serious consequence."

"I know." Channary evaded his grasp. "I promise. I won't do it again."


End file.
